


the heart is a fist

by wollfgang



Category: UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: Blasphemy, Blood and Violence, Canon Compliant, Canon Temporary Character Death, Future Fic, Happy Ending, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Rescue, Sexual Content, UnDeadwood Mini-series (Critical Role)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-16 19:56:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 44,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21276827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wollfgang/pseuds/wollfgang
Summary: Matthew casts a look towards Mister Sharpe, trying to get a read on the man. Clayton is cold, but not in the way a stray bullet is cold. Clayton is the first snap of winter, the crush of peppermint under your teeth. His grey eyes meet Matthew’s and hold. The revolver is offered in Matthew’s direction, handle first..Matthew dreams of cold hands and grey skies. He tries not to think about why..The Dealer grins at him, disembodied hands shuffling cards again and again. An incessant staccato of sound that seems to echo and fold back on itself.The voice comes from nowhere and everywhere, burrows into his mind like serpent.“What would you give to have him?”





	1. someone is always leaving

**Author's Note:**

> I'm ignoring my nanowrimo project to dip my toe in a new fandom don't @ me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic has been updated 
> 
> Patch notes:  
\- fic now compliant with Episode Four  
\- backstory tweaked  
\- certain names replaced

It had been one of those days where the sun beat down, hot and relentless. The town of Deadwood had gone languid with the heat like sunsoaked lizards. With no pressing business at hand, the five of them— Aloysius, Matthew, Miriam, Clayton and Arabella—found themselves sprawled out at the Gem Saloon, sipping whiskey and left to their own devices, which was their first mistake. 

A shooting contest.

Matthew doesn’t remember if it was Aloysius’ teasing or Arabella’s challenge that started it all. However it happened, the result was all of them standing in the shade cast by the still charred church and a row of tin cans sitting some distance away on some saw horses that have seen better days. 

There was something surely morbid about a shooting contest involving a man who'd been shot to death and the man who'd shot him, but this was Deadwood. It didn't even register as odd on the level of strange this town had experienced.

Arabella and Miriam have already demonstrated their aim and done well at it, three cans apiece. Matthew resets the cans he can find for Aloysius to take his turn. 

“I’ll even use my own pistol to make it fair,” the man adds, setting aside the rifle.

“Awfully kind of you,” Clayton says, inflectionless.

Aloysius braces himself and fires, one right after the other. Four out of five cans go down. 

“Beat that, Mister Sharpe!” Aloysius crows, smug. His white teeth flash in a grin.

“I intend to.” 

Clayton takes up his same position, spine straight, shoulders back. It strikes Matthew then that he looks like something out of a dime novel. Heroic. There’s a low burn of something a bit like envy, a bit like something else, in Matthew's gut. He smothers it. Clayton fires, the crack of bullets splitting the air. 

Most of Clayton's shots go wide, save for one, which nicks a can and sends it spinning. 

Aloysius is bent over, cackling. Clayton’s mouth is a tight line. “You know, for a sharpshooter,” he says, his dark eyes sparkling in that way of his. “You sure can’t shoot shit.”

Clatyon bears his teeth in a snarl, but Aloysius cannot be swayed from his amusement. "You oughta be grateful for my aim, Mister Fogg, or there'd been two resurrections needed on a particular day." 

Matthew eyes the two of them warily, but Aloysius takes the remark in stride.

Things had been tense between all of them after Clayton had been brought back. Six days past that horrible day in the street and the grief hit Aloysius; just what he had done, just who he had killed. Distraught was too mild a word. Matthew had allowed the greater part of his resentment to fade in prayer, but seeing Aloysius' anguish had put out the rest.

They hadn't been sure it would work; a ritual cobbled together from Cochran's notes and Arabella's knowledge and Matthew's faith. Aloysius had stepped into the church, fallen unsteadily to his knees, and prayed alongside Matthew to a God he didn't believe in as fervently as any zealot. 

And Clayton had gasped to life.

Aloysius kept to the outskirts afterwards, which had pleased Miriam, whose anger and bereavement had burned wide and deep. But it hadn't sat right with the newly living man, who had asked for Matthew to pray for Mister Fogg's forgiveness as sweet and angel-faced as any martyr. Clayton went after Aloysius, determined to set things right. They came back together, Aloysius sporting an impressive black eye and a smile, Clayton with his arm thrown over his shoulder. Apparently, things between them were square. It had taken Miriam and Arabella longer, but it was difficult to hold a grudge when Clayton was up walking around, speaking and touching and _alive._

And, right now, continously missing his shots.

“Maybe we ought to see if he can hit the broad side of the church.” Miriam joins in on the teasing. 

“Hey!” Matthew objects. “No shooting my church!”

“With that streak of luck,” Arabella remarks, “I wager even the Father would stand a better chance of hitting a can that far out.”

Matthew shifts, uncomfortable with the abrupt swing of attention. He’d been watching and enjoying the warmth of the day and the lighthearted sport. “Oh, I doubt that very much,” he blusters.

“Come now, Matthew,” Miriam encourages, “At least give it a try. The Lord won’t mind the loss of a few tin cans, I’m sure.”

"Show us that soldier skill, cavalryman."

Matthew casts a look towards Clayton, trying to get a read on the man. Something in Matthew had rattled wrong when Clayton fell back, red blooming at his chest. Something that constantly keeps tabs on Mister Sharpe, checking that he's there, standing, breathing. 

Clayton is cold, but not in the way a stray bullet is cold. Clayton is the first snap of winter, the crush of peppermint under your teeth. His grey eyes meet Matthew’s and hold. An eyebrow raises, but neither of them say anything. Clayton gives sway to their good humor. The revolver is offered in Matthew’s direction, handle first. 

It’s a typical revolver, single action, but the stock is etched with intricate designs. It is, without a doubt, a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. He can understand Clayton’s reluctance to part with it. 

"I've not been having much luck with them. Perhaps you can do better," Clayton remarks. Their hands brush as Clayton passes it off, muted through both of their leather gloves. The gun is weighty in his palm, though not as heavy as his own revolver hidden away in his room. Matthew's fingers curl instinctively around it. “After all, what better weapon for the good Reverend to manage than a Peacemaker?" There’s something wry and amused in Clayton’s eyes. 

"I think after everything we've been through, you can call me Matthew." 

Clayton goes still like a rattler before a strike. Matthew thinks he’s just made a grave miscalculation, but then it passes. “I’ll take that under advisement. Now, you got six shots in there.” Clayton’s fingers redirect his slightly. “Keep your fingers back from the cylinder if you want to keep ‘em,” he warns. 

Matthew fights back a grin and allows him to show him how to complete a task he's very familiar with. But Clayton enjoys teaching, though he might not admit it, so Matthew is happy to allow him to instruct.

“You pull the hammer back and then put your finger on the trigger. Don’t be pointing at things you don’t intend to kill.”

“Yes, yes, I remember.” That had been the first lesson Clayton had drilled into his head when he’d been handed his shotgun. It had amused him at the time, and it amuses him now. 

Clayton flicks his eyes up, shadowed under the wide brim of his hat. Matthew feels abruptly chastised, despite there being no spoken rebuke, and does his best to pay attention, even though the lessons are familiar. With Clayton's surprisingly gentle guidance, Matthew lines up the shot. Calm comes over him, like the peace just before a sermon. He breathes. The scent of gunpowder and menthol fills his lungs.

He shoots. The sharp ting of metal on metal and a can goes flying through the air. Matthew breathes again. Aims, fires. A second can falls, glinting in the sun. His third shot misses, but not by much. He adjusts his feet, steadies himself and hits. Three cans. Four. Five. All targets down.

“Well, all be,” Clayton says, the edge of his hat tipping up. “That’s some mighty fine shooting, Matthew.” 

Matthew looks over, but Clayton doesn’t make eye contact. That’s probably for the best as pleasure, unexpected and warm, blooms in Matthew’s chest at the use of his given name. A grin makes its way across his face. He makes a leap, feeling that same unearthly calm before sending a bullet hurtling through the air. “Well, as iron sharpens iron, so too does a man sharpen his friend." He hands the gun back. “I owe it to your excellent tutelage, I’m sure.”

“Well, I suppose that’s what...friends are for,” Clayton says, expression hidden behind his hat as he turns away. Matthew likes to imagine it was an effort to hide a smile.

Later, when Matthew is looking back on things, he'll be too far gone to pinpoint the exact moment it started. But here, now, Clayton's happiness safely tucked away, but Matthew knowing it was there all the same, will stand out. 

* * *

Matthew tallies up his accounts with the careful attitude of a man unaccustomed to such sums. He asks Miriam to go over them as well, since she has a much sharper eye than him when it comes to business. She had given him the go ahead with a squeeze to his arm and a kiss to his cheek.

He can rebuild the church.

Suddenly, all the strange and horrible things he’d done since coming to Deadwood become worth it. Arabella accompanies him to the lumber yards to negotiate for supplies. Aloysius handles the transportation of goods. Stacks of beams and boxes of nails pile in front of the building.

In the morning, Matthew takes off his duster coat and his cassock, leaving him in his white linen shirt. He rolls up the sleeves and begins to work. It’s difficult labor, especially alone, but he manages a fair amount, even as people come to gawk as he hammers.

“Hey, Preacher!”

Matthew cuts off a swear as his hammer finds his thumb. A few of the onlookers laugh. He turns and looks at the speaker. A group of known ruffians about town, though Matthew cannot recall their names. “What can I help you with?”

“You’re the one looking like you need help, Preacher. Or is your God going to come down and lend you aid?” His friends grin at his jeering.

“You’d have better luck hammering my wood!” another calls out.

Matthew struggles to keep his temper in check. “Seeing how short your visits to Anna at the Gem are, I have no doubt about that,” he replies, despite himself.

The man’s friend howl with laughter while the heckler turns red. The man contents himself with kicking dirt in Matthew’s direction and moving on. “Come on, fellas. Ain’t no point in watchin’ the preacher bark at a knot.” It prompts the other bystanders to find other entertainments to occupy themselves with other than watching a priest hit nails.

For a brief moment, resentment swells up in his chest. Perhaps he ought to leave the church as it is. Arabella thought it had character, maybe it wasn’t worth the effort of rebuilding. Pearls before swine, and all that. Then it passes. The Lord wouldn’t want him to harbor such bitterness in his heart. Matthew decides there’s no reason in working further for the moment. He stands and groans a little, back cracking. Lunch will do him and his attitude a world of good. It's a short walk to the Gem.

Johnny brings him a bottle of whiskey and a bowl of meat stew with a section of bread. It’s fresh and still soft. A few of his regular parishioners stop by and say hello, engaging in small talk while Matthew eats. He finishes one bowl and sends for another. He sops up the juice with his last bit of bread and finishes by slowly nursing his drink. The whiskey is cheap and burns his throat, but, despite the heat, it’s satisfying.

Finally, he can put it off no longer. He pays for his meal, Dan waves off his attempt to pay for the alcohol, and dons his hat. He walks the thoroughfare at a pace more sluggish than normal. The church will take time to rebuild, he knows that—especially working alone—but today was not the most...encouraging.

When Matthew arrives at the church, there is half of a dozen men working. Clayton Sharpe oversees them from a dozen paces back with eagle eyes, arms folded. Matthew gapes. It takes him a moment to realize that many of the workers are the very men who had harassed him earlier. One of the men begins to act a bit shifty, only to glance up and meet Clayton's icy gaze. He ducks his head and quickly returns to his efforts.

Matthew steps up to his companion, no, his _friend_. Clayton doesn’t acknowledge his presence beyond the slightest change in the angle of his hat. "Did you do this?" Matthew asks, aghast. In the scant hours he’s been gone, already great headway has been made. Walls are starting to take shape and the worst of the blackened wood has been cleared away.

"You can blame Missus Whitlock and Missus Landisman." Clayton nods at the two ladies who occupy a nearby space, chatting with Aloysius.

Matthew wonders at the little sidestep. Clayton is a man of few words, but he handles them with the deft skill of a master. There is no denial of his share in his actual speech, merely implication. “I'm sure I can,” Matthew answers. Then, quieter, “Thank you.”

Clayton says nothing else, but Matthew reckons there's something pleased resting in the corner of his mouth. Miriam is more than happy to let slip the responsible party when he goes to thank them as well.

“Why, when Mister Sharpe heard what those boys were saying.” She shakes her head, dark curls flowing with the movement. “You wouldn’t be able to tell if you didn’t know the man, but he was fit to be tied. Once he’d pressed them into service, we only encouraged some others to help out where they could.” By the impish look in her eye, it had been effective.

Matthew isn’t one to watch while others put in the work. He surmises what needs doing and jumps right in with the others. It’s hard, physical work, but many hands make the load light. He makes a point to learn the names of the men who had been mocking him—Luke, Sawyer, Bill and Ned—the previous animosity dissolving under the bond of shared work.

Every once in a while Matthew can feel the cool sweep of Clayton’s gaze. When the sun begins to set, they put things away to be continued later.

“See you boys tomorrow,” Clayton says, calm and even. The men skitter like gunshy horses, but nod and agree.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Matthew says, keeping his voice low.

“I didn’t,” Clayton agrees. Then he smiles, surprisingly sly. “But did you see how they spooked?”

Matthew can’t help but get caught up in Clayton’s rare mirth. “I did.”

"Gotta say, bein' a modern-day Lazarus does have it's benefits." He bounces on his toes a little. The moment stretches between them like taffy, sweet and soft.

“Well, seems we have another full day of work tomorrow.”

Clayton doesn’t speak, just nods his head.

Matthew shifts his weight. “Ah, I’ll bid you good night, then.”

Clayton’s still got that look in his eye like he’s laughing. “Good night, Matthew.”

* * *

The second day goes much like the first, though Matthew leaves his priestly attire at home. There was no point when he would ruin them with stains. He’s down to a thin, was-white-at-one-time shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, and his lightest pair of trousers. The boys razz him about it a little, but there’s little ceremony to stand on, especially in Deadwood. 

Clayton is already there at the church when Matthew arrives in the morning. Although, Matthew is sure Clayton no longer believes the men will attempt to abscond from whatever duties he's drafted them to, he still watches. A few of the workers wait around, too. 

“Morning, Clayton.” 

Mister Sharpe lifts his hand in greeting. 

Matthew turns to his workers and starts to organize. The bulk of the construction is complete, but the roof needs repaired and the shingles replaced. The new shingles won’t match the old, but it’s still a sight prettier than leaving it as is. It’s hotter today than before, and soon they’re all drenched in sweat. Matthew endures it and hauls up a large stack of shingles on his shoulder. 

“Show off!” Bill hollers. 

“The Lord gives me strength, William,” Matthew replies back, setting them down with a large thump.

“Being built as wide as a fuckin' outhouse don’t hurt nothin’ neither,” Luke adds on scathingly. “It’s a good thing you don’t indulge in the flesh, Preacher, you’d smother any lady beneath you.”

“Who says she’d be beneath him?” Ned replies, “He’s used to being on his knees.” It sends them into fits of laughter. Matthew allows them their amusement. It’s hurtless and they’re getting the work done. 

Miriam and Arabella, escorted by Aloysius, stop by again. They watch the working men with interest, chatting coquettishly amongst themselves. He makes his way down to them to say hello. Bill gives him shit about quitting early to talk to girls, but Matthew pays him no mind.

“Ladies,” he greets, “What brings you here?”

“Such fine, manly specimens we have before us, Reverend,” Miriam teases, giving him a slow once over that makes him blush. “We are quite content to observe you in your natural habitat.”

Matthew feels abruptly under dressed. He’s damp with sweat, his hair sticking in an unpleasant fashion. He pushes it back, but it’s a losing battle. 

“Besides,” Aloysius remarks from where he sits, placing his hat over his face. “We ain’t got nothing better to do.”

“You can always lend a hand if you feel the need to occupy yourself, Mister Fogg,” Matthew suggests.

“That’s all right, Reverend,” Aloysius replies, a bit muffled. “You seem to be doing a bang up job. Besides, I don’t see Mister Sharpe sawin’ no boards.”

“I’m supervising,” Clayton answers, without heat. “Otherwise someone’s likely to brain themselves with a mallet.”

“Sure, sure,” Aloysius answers with a lazy wave. “Me, too. Supervisin’.”

“Supervising the inside of your hat, maybe,” Clayton says under his breath, startling a laugh from Matthew. Clayton blinks a little before turning his gaze back to the church.

“Well,” Matthew says, attempting to extradite himself from the conversation. “I better get back to it.”

“Drinks later?” Miriam asks. “My treat.”

Matthew smiles. “You’re too kind, Miss Miriam.”

“Well, you deserve it after all this hard work. We’ll be back for you this evening, say, six ‘o clock? Until then we’ll leave you under Mister Sharpe’s watchful eye.”

“I’ll be here with bells on,” Matthew promises. 

They manage to finish the repairs to the roof. Matthew decides to save the shingles for tomorrow, given that the sun is already tipping towards the horizon. Once he’s back on the ground, Ned offers him a canteen and Matthew gratefully takes it. The water is lukewarm, but that is no deterrent to Matthew's dry throat. He dumps the rest of it on his head, soaking his hair and the collar of his shirt as it drips down his neck and back. He tips his head up to the sun and sighs. 

A sensation like snowflakes dances over his skin and Matthew blinks his eyes open. Clayton’s gaze is lazy and dark, casting an appraising look at him. It feels oddly similar to Miriam’s previously. The slight breeze feels cold against where the wet shirt sticks to his skin even as heat blooms in his belly. Ned says something and the moment breaks as Matthew remembers there are other folks around.

He bids the boys farewell until tomorrow and jogs over to where Clayton stands. He looks back at the church from this point of view and smiles. It’s nearly complete.

“There she stands, the church of Deadwood.” Matthew reaches over and grips Clayton’s shoulder, squeezes. Joy bubbles in his veins. “I couldn’t have done it without your help. Thank you, my friend.” Clayton stand stiff under his touch, back ramrod straight. “Clayton?” he questions, his hand falling away. There’s a pinkness to his friend's cheeks.

“Seems like the work here is done,” Clayton says, his voice rough. He touches the edge of his brim and walks away, leaving Matthew standing there with the sinking feeling he’s done something wrong. 

He bathes and tries to put Clayton’s odd reaction out of his mind while scrubbing dried sweat off of himself. It’s not necessary, given the level of hygiene present in Deadwood, but the ladies he keeps company with, namely Miriam and Arabella, appreciate it. He redresses and waits until he hears Aloysius hollering for him before heading outside. Clayton isn’t with them.

"Did Mister Sharpe change his mind?" Matthew asks. 

"Oh, he passed us on the way here," Arabella tells him. "Said something came up and to give you his apologies."

"I see," Matthew answers, troubled. "I hope everything is quite all right."

"I'm sure it is, Matthew. For now, you'll just have to make do with us." Miriam slips her arm in his. 

He gazes down at her affectionately. "That is never a hardship."

She beams back up at him. 

It feels odd for all of them to be at the Gem Saloon without Mister Sharpe, but Arabella and Miriam descend upon him with questions of furniture and interior decoration to keep his mind occupied. Aloysius gives up on them and joins another table for a round of dice. 

Matthew knows he will need a bed, at the very least. Candles aplenty. Miriam tuts at him and promises to get what he needs and order what isn't available in town. 

Matthew is a little afraid by the gleam in her eye, but leaves it be. It’s only after he’s had a few swallows of liquid courage does he broach the topic of their absent sharpshooter with Miriam, keeping his voice quiet. She has a much better sense of people than he does. 

“Was...was Mister Sharpe feeling well today?” Matthew fiddles with his glass. 

“He seemed fine, sugar,” Miriam answers, a crinkle of concern forming between her eyebrows. “What brought this on?”

“Oh, it’s just, he left rather quickly today.” 

“Ah,” she says, eyes sparkling. “He did seem a bit flushed. The heat, you know.” 

Relief washes through Matthew, his shoulders easing. “Of course. It was quite warm, even without being on the roof.” He wipes at the moisture trailing down the bottle. “That must be it.”

After all, nothing else made sense.

* * *

Clayton isn’t there the next morning and something sinks in Matthew’s chest to see it. Still, the roof won’t shingle itself. He rolls up his sleeves, helps set up ladders, and begins the climb up. Sawyer hands him the hammer and they begin to stagger the shingles out. 

It’s only because on his vantage point that Matthew spots Clayton making an odd, circuitous route toward the church. He stops and talks with Bill, peers up at the roof, shading his eyes even though he wears his hat. Matthew waves, unsure at its reception. Clayton waves back. Something tight in Matthew's chest eases.

It’s nearly midday when Matthew is putting the final damned shingles on. The outside walls still could use a coat of paint, but the building is sound and habitable and the roof won't leak. Matthew can’t imagine the Lord desiring much ostentation from a place like this. A sense of visceral satisfaction flows through him as he nails the last one in place.

Three days of work, three days of blood, sweat, and tears, and the church is finished. 

He makes his way down the less than sturdy ladder and steps down onto solid ground. Bill claps his shoulder. “It looks real nice, Reverend.” 

“It oughta after all them damned nails we put in!” shouts Luke. “You tell your God about all the work we did, you hear?” 

The boys manage to talk Matthew into taking an early dinner. Clayton trails along beside him, confident in his inclusion in their plans, unspoken though it was. By the sound of shouts and breaking glass as they approach, there’s a fight going on in the saloon. Matthew feels a biting touch at his wrist and finds himself pulled out of harm's way as three men come spilling out of the doors, bruised and bleeding.

He looks down at Clayton’s bare hand circled against his arm. Distantly, he thinks this is the first time they’ve ever touched, skin to skin. Why that seems of particular note, he doesn't know. Clayton releases him quickly, as if his touch were unwelcome. “My apologies.”

“That’s quite all right, you spared me getting knocked off my feet.”

“I think it would take more than that to make you lose your footing, fella your size,” Clayton replies. He clears his throat and pushes ahead. Matthew stares after him, bewildered. 

They eat, Clayton quieter than usual, but Matthew has little time to worry on it as the men get loud and raucous with food and drink. Someone produces a deck of cards and ropes them into a game. Clayton declines until it’s clear they’re attempting to swindle Matthew, expecting his open expressions to give him away. Matthew watches in awe as a stone faced Clayton takes them for all that their worth. 

“Aw, come on now, Mister Sharpe!” Bill whines as he folds again. “Let the preacher play, we ain’t gonna skim _too _much from him.”

“Yeah,” Luke drawls, too drunk for good sense. “He a full grown man, isn’t ‘e? Ain’t no fuckin' Mary cocksucker needin’ his gentleman to protect his virtue.”

Clayton goes still. "What was that?" 

"Luke," Ned tries to stop his friend, but it's too late. 

"I said he ain't no buggering sodomite-" 

Clayton stands abruptly, chair scraping back, and the saloon conversation dips in expectation of violence. This is no playful frightening. This is a Clayton who means fucking business, fairly bristling with menace. Matthew holds himself very still.

“Don’t pay Luke any mind,” Sawyer says nervously, clearly unnerved at a dead man looking like he's about to acquaint them with the concept himself. “We ain't got nothing against fellas liking fellas. He’s a mush-head when he drinks.” 

Luke goes to open his mouth, but someone kicks him under the table. 

Clayton’s voice is icy and razor edged as any finely honed blade. “I won’t have you besmirching the Reverend’s good name with that kind of talk. You keep a civil tongue or you’ll find yourself without one.” 

They look up at Clayton with genuine terror, and nod. “Yes, sir, Mister Sharpe,” Luke manages. “We didn’t mean no harm.”

Something awful and violent shifts over Clayton’s face before it passes, like the clouds rolling in front of the moon. He takes the bottle of whiskey off of the table and leaves. The conversation picks back up around them as they all stare. 

“What in the _Almighty _Hell just happened?” Ned asks. 

Matthew doesn’t know, but he aims to find out. He throws a few bills down and stands himself. “Gentlemen,” he farewells. 

It’s dark when Matthew exits the Gem. He looks to the right and left quickly and only manages to catch sight of a familiar shape in the dark. He scrambles to catch up. 

“Clayton!” Matthew calls out, but his pace doesn't slow. Matthew reaches out and catches his elbow stopping the man in his tracks. Clayton's reaction is instant and brutal. "Don't fucking touch me." Matthew stumbles back, hand pressing to his ribs where the blow landed. There was sure to be a bruise there tomorrow.

As for Clayton, he looks shocked himself. "Mister Mason," he says, voice like scraped glass. "I didn't-my apologies."

"It's all right," Matthew placates, like he's dealing with a cornered animal. "I shouldn't have grabbed you. You have my apologies as well."

Clayton seems to withdraw in himself. 

Matthew finds himself tongue tied. “Are- are you returning to the hotel?” He silently curses himself. It wasn't remotely close to the questions he wanted to ask. 

Clayton turns away, only offering Matthew the very edge of his face. “I’m afraid I have other business to attend to before I turn in.”

“Oh. Of course. Very well, then. Godspeed.”

Clayton nods and vanishes around a corner. Matthew sighs and studies the sliver of moon hanging in the sky. He walks back to the hotel alone, makes his way to his room, and shuts the door. There were never as frustrating and enigmatical a man as Clayton Sharpe. 

Matthew dreams of cold hands and grey skies. He tries not to think about why.

* * *

Matthew doesn’t see hide nor hair of Clayton for days. He looks for him. Goes to his hotel room, but there's no answer. He looks for him at the Gem, but Dan reports not seeing him either. The mottled bruise on his ribs begins to green with healing. He keeps himself busy. Tries to. Fails at his attempt to keep his mind from studying their interaction to determine what went wrong. Miriam does her level best to keep Matthew distracted. She manages a fair job of it as they furnish the little bedroom in the top of the church for him to inhabit. She arranges for paint to be shipped in to town in the next few weeks.

Tomorrow is the first official Sunday since the church has been repaired. He stands at the makeshift pulpit, bible spread out before him, and scrawls his notes on a separate sheet of paper with ink smudged fingers. His vestments are dark enough for the stains not to show, but he still might have to seek Arabella or Miriam's help for the black spots dotting his shirt cuffs. He flips the page and murmurs. Hmm. He tests out the passage aloud. 

"For the eyes of the LORD run to and fro throughout the whole earth, to shew himself strong in the behalf of them whose heart is perfect toward him."

"Mayhaps that's why your God and I don't get along. Never been overly fond of eyes on me."

Matthew startles, head snapping up. He relaxes at the sight of a familiar silhouette at the door, but no closer. "Mister Sharpe." 

"Clayton," he reminds. 

"Clayton," Matthew repeats softly. 

Not Amos. Amos Kinsley was dead, Clayton had explained after he sat, shivering, in a blanket, breathing anew. He was Clayton Sharpe, member of the Deadwood Five. It was the name he chose, the name his friends called him by. He didn't want any other. 

"I didn't hear you come in," Matthew says politely, still unsure where they stood after their previous parting. 

Clayton looks...worn. His face seems drawn, the shadows lying deeper. His hands fidget briefly at his sides before going still.

"If I'd wanted you to, you would have." 

"Yes. Well." Matthew isn't sure what to do with that. He falls back on what he knows. "If it's any reassurance, God looks, not to find fault, but to search out the smallest bit of righteousness in us. As the good book says 'As far as the east is from the west, so far hath He removed our transgressions from us.'" 

"That's mighty far," Clayton allows, the brim of his hat dipping slightly. 

Matthew smiles. "Yes." He clears his throat. "But I am sure you didn't come here for me to practice my sermons."

An odd expression flickers over Clayton's face before it settles back into its normal impassiveness. "I came to see if you were getting dinner at the Gem."

"Dinner? What time is it?" He squints towards the windows, now notices the deep amber hue of the light. 

"An hour or so before sunset."

Matthew's stomach growls something fierce. He feels a heat unfurl in his cheeks. "Oh. I hadn't realized it had gotten so late."

"Come on, Matthew." Clayton jerks his head over his shoulder and starts walking. "Preaching can wait until you've gotta hot meal in your belly. This one is on me." 

"Oh," Matthew scrambles to catch up. "That's kind of you, Clayton, but really, I can pay." 

Clayton waves his protests away. "Consider it a bit of righteousness your God can search for."

Perhaps it is compensation for the dinner that ended with such abruptness or for the wild strike he had landed. Well, either way, Matthew won’t object to it. 

* * *

One dinner turns into two, turns into a few times a week. 

Some evenings they’re joined by the others and sometimes not. There are days when the cacophony of a saloon is too much for Clayton and they’ll eat in his room or at the church. 

There are days when they’re on errands for Mister Swearengen, eating dried meats and whatever miracle Aloysius managed to cook up for them in the middle of nowhere, where they don’t even talk, sitting side by side under the starry sky. Matthew loves those nights, thinks he could sit there forever.

* * *

A band of thieves have started causing trouble for travelers coming to and from Deadwood and Mister Swearengen has sent them out to deal with it. Discretion on this particular venture is less than necessary. They’ve holed up in some caves half a day’s ride out of town near one of the main roads. They had a late start, a combination of small distractions and supply issues. No one wants a shootout in the dark, so they’ve bedded down at the edge of the woods near where they think their targets are, but not too near.

It’s Matthew’s watch, the dreaded third watch, when Miriam takes a seat next to him. 

“Father,” she begins and immediately Matthew knows what kind of conversation this is. This isn’t Matthew she’s speaking to, it's the Reverend. “I had something I’ve been meaning to ask of you.”

“I will do my best to answer,” he promises, pitching his voice soft and sincere. 

“Your...friendship with Mister Sharpe,” she begins hesitantly. 

Matthew’s brows lower with confusion. Perhaps this _is_ a Matthew conversation after all. Or some unknown blend of the two. 

“It’s nice to see the two of you be so companionable. He seems much more settled than when we first made his acquaintance. You have an honorable, sweet heart and I think it’s done him good. He could use a man like you in his corner.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Landisman.”

She opens her mouth and then shuts it, clearly mulling over what she wants to say. “That said, has he seemed...strained lately? He’s a paranoid individual at the best of times, but this seems excessive.”

They both cast a look over to where Clayton sleeps. He’d double backed twice to ensure no one was following them and had requested that they cut a strange path through the woods. It exacerbated the length of the journey, but Clayton had been insistent, so they’d indulged him. 

Matthew nods. “Jumpy. More than usual.”

“Has he said anything to you?”

Matthew shakes his head. He pauses. "Do you think it's a...side effect?"

They don't often talk about it, the cost of bringing Clayton back to the land of the living.

Miriam purses her mouth. "I don't know. Possibly. Mister Sharpe was always a careful fellow, before. But then again, if I'd had a man like Aloysius chasing me, I would have been careful, too."

He reaches for her, takes her hand. "Even with the bounty on Kinsey collected, Clayton might have other reasons to be cautious," Matthew says.

“I know we’ve all done things we have less reason to be proud of, believe me, but- you be careful, too, would you?”

He’s not entirely sure what he’s supposed to be careful about, but he nods. “‘Behold, I send you out as sheep in the midst of wolves; therefore be shrewd as serpents and innocent as doves.’”

She smiles at him, fond. “Yes. I expect Mister Sharpe is wild as any wolf. Certainly skittish and as liable to bite.”

Matthew chuckles. He’s felt first hand the abrupt crack of temper Clayton has, he'd worn that bruise a long time. “I’ll take your counsel under advisement.” He pats her hand. “Thank you, Miriam.”

“Well, don’t you worry, Mister Sharpe is going to get a talking to as well, if I’ve got anything to say about it.” Miriam leans against his shoulder. “Somebody has got to knock some sense into that fool man.”

“If anyone is up to the task,” Matthew confides, “It is you, Miss Miriam.”

“Well,” she grouses, but looks pleased. “Someone’s gotta do it.” 

Matthew’s watch ends and he stumbles over to his mat and the rolled up blanket that serves as his pillow. His other blanket has been commandeered by the object of conversation. Clayton is fairly lost amongst the material. Honey-brown strands of hair peeking out near the top is the only sign of him. It might be the steadiest sleep Clayton’s gotten in the last few weeks, so he’ll forgive the purloined blanket. It’s quite all right, Matthew tends to overheat in his sleep anyway. 

Matthew slips into an easy sleep, surrounded by the sound of his friends’ soft breathing and the low crackle of embers.

* * *

Everything is black. 

The Dealer grins at him, disembodied hands shuffling cards again and again. An incessant staccato of sound that seems to echo and fold back on itself. The voice comes from nowhere and everywhere, burrows into his mind like an adder. _“What would you give to have him?” _

“Who?” Matthew asks politely, fighting against the urge to shiver. Whatever this creature is, god or devil or something even stranger, it warrants respect. 

A vision of a frozen ocean, grey-blue, fills his mind. The feeling of a cool hand wrapped around his wrist. Red blooms. Refreshing water down a parched throat. A sliver of a smile in the dark like the flash of metal. Wolf eyes in the shadows.

Oh. Of course. 

“I don’t understand. He is already here with me.” Does this have something to do with whatever inner demons are haunting his friend?

New sensations come forward. A hot, eager mouth. Hands, sliding. The press of a body against his own. Pleasure, heavy and desperate and burning.

“Enough,” Matthew says, startled. “_Enough_!” 

It vanishes, leaving him trembling. It takes him a long moment to gather himself, mouth dry, ears ringing. “I would not wager with you to gain him in this way,” Matthew says, mouth dry. His mind is spinning, skin aching with a kind of absence he’s never before experienced. “He is not mine to take.”

The Dealer waits. There are no eyes set in the empty face, but Matthew gets the sense of something large and unfathomable staring downwards, as if a mountain itself has turned its attention to him. 

Matthew thinks about lifting Clayton's dead body off of the dirty street. He thinks about praying until the words ran together as Arabella chanted incantations. He thinks about the bone shaking relief as Clayton's heart stuttered and beat, his soul once again housed in his body.Matthew gathers his courage. “He is not yours to offer.”

The Dealer grins, inhumanly wide. _“It’s the hands you fold, not the hands you play.”_ It stops shuffling. It raises a hand and, with a snap of fingers, Matthew jolts into wakefulness. 

* * *

Clayton stares down at him, grey eyes concerned, a hand gripping his shoulder too tight. A flash of heat goes through his body and Matthew recoils away. Clayton drops his grip instantly. “You all right?”

Matthew sits up a little further, scooting away. “Yes. Yes.” He tries to swallow, but his throat sticks. “Nightmares.”

Clayton’s gaze softens. “Take a minute.” He steps away to help the others pack up. 

Matthew clenches his fists in the blanket pooled around his waist. He looks down at the material in puzzlement. It's not his blanket. He glances over at Clayton, but he’s busy loading the horses. Matthew is sticky with sweat. He kicks free of the bedroll and quickly changes his shirt, pulling a clean one over his head before anyone can remark. 

“You feeling okay, Reverend?” Arabella asks when he mounts into the saddle.

“Just fine, Miss Arabella,” he replies, the lie scalding on his tongue. He’s not entirely sure _what_ to think. What the Dealer showed him...it had never even occurred to him. His thoughts rarely stray to the pleasures of the flesh and _certainly _hadn’t entertained anything of that nature with Mister Sharpe. 

Matthew glances up. Clayton is handsome, no doubt. Strong and lithe. Matthew could understand how someone of that persuasion would find him desirable. Arabella had briefly cast an admiring eye Sharpe's way, though it hadn't been returned. In fact, Clayton never seemed to express interest in anyone at all. At least, not with the women of their company or the ones at the saloon. Perhaps his inclination didn't lie with the fairer sex? But, given Clayton’s reaction about the way those boys talked about...those sorts of things, it was impossible. That sort of anger couldn't be false.

Matthew shakes himself from his thoughts. It didn’t matter. Clayton was his _friend_. That was more than enough. To want for more would be greedy and covetous. It would feel like a betrayal of the friendship they’d carefully built. He looks up to where Clayton leads the group, Aloysius at his right, helping track their quarry.

It was merely the Dealer playing tricks on him. Nothing more.

When they find the bandits, they’re at too great a distance for Matthew’s shotgun to be of any use. They dismount and form a plan of attack. An ambush. Two-pronged. Quick and quiet. Clayton wordlessly presses one of his revolvers into Matthew’s hand before moving to a better vantage point. 

When things go south, as they tend to, Clayton and Matthew end up pressed back to back, spitting bullet after bullet with impeccable precision, until the scene falls silent. Well. The bandits wouldn’t be troubling Deadwood any longer. They drag the bodies away, after taking anything of value off of them, and ride back into town. Matthew returns to the church and reads scripture until he falls asleep. 

The Dealer does not visit him. 


	2. by exile, death, or heartbreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matthew meets him head on, tilting his head in that slightly odd way that makes him go from disarming to _dangerous_. He pitches his voice low, gravel dark. 
> 
> “_Frightened,_ Mister Sharpe?” It’s a little vindicating when he notes the way Clayton’s pupils react. It’s nice to know he can still unnerve someone as unflappable as Clayton Sharpe. Still, Clayton isn’t one to retreat at the first sign of intimidation. He raises a penny and Arabella folds, content to watch it play out between the two of them. Matthew meets. Clayton bets again and Matthew doubles, calling it. 
> 
> “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so now it's going to be three chapter's cause these dummies can't get their acts together

Things are quiet around town. Matthew is grateful for the reprieve, but not everyone feels the same. The peace only serves to make Clayton more agitated than when people are getting shot in the streets. He curls in like an animal, his eyes constantly on the lookout whenever anyone can manage to persuade him to join them for dinner. 

It’s on one such evening that Matthew watches him pace back and forth, nearly wearing a groove into the hard packed dirt in front of the Gem. “Why aren’t they here yet?” The question is gruff and snappish.

“It’s only been a few minutes,” Matthew responds. “I am sure they will be here shortly.”

“We should have gathered them from the hotel,” he refutes. “Escorted them from there.”

“I have no doubt that Aloysius can deal with any trouble they come across, and if he can’t, the ladies can certainly handle it themselves.”

He smiles as Clayton is torn between belittling their friends capabilities or allowing Matthew to be correct. They are saved from whatever Clayton’s answer would be as Matthew catches sight of them. "Look, here they come now, you can quit your fretting." 

"I ain't _frettin'_." He tugs at his gloves, sullen. Matthew tries not to find it endearing. He doesn’t do a very good job of it. They walk, Clayton in the lead, Matthew and Aloysius with a lady each on their arm, to the Gem.

Dinner, with all five of them together, is a noisy affair. Dan keeps sending them over drinks and they keep taking them. Anna and her friend Beth swing by to visit and flirt with Aloysius, which he returns with great delight. Matthew watches, caught between fascination as how smoothly the man charms the women he visits and uncomfortable at the overt display as they tip their cleavage forward and brush their fingers along Aloysius’ shoulders and neck.

Arabella distracts him from the exhibition with a question revolving around his faith. Their discussion devolves into a examination of theology that the others leave them to. It does serve to motivate the ladies of the house to say their goodbyes, pressing lingering kisses to Aloysius’ cheeks. 

“I feel like I need to confess just _watchin’ _that display,” Clayton drawls, the good food and strong drink serving to ease his nervous energy. 

“Didn’t know you got off on watchin’ folk, Mister Sharpe. I’m happy to let you observe me ‘n the ladies anytime.” Aloysius grins, pearly whites shining with unashamed glee. 

“And if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out: it is better for thee to enter into the kingdom of God with one eye...” Matthew begins, half in jest, leaning into the fluster.

Aloysius throws his head back with laughter. “All right, all right. How ‘bout we bring out my kind of prayer book, Preacher?” Aloysius jokes, pulling out a weathered deck of cards, the edges worn with use. 

“I’m game,” Clayton says, sitting forward. “Ladies?”

“Deal us in, lover boy,” Miriam remarks, a canny gleam in her eye. 

“How ‘bout some three card brag?” Aly suggests, shuffling the deck with skilled hands. Clayton watches his hands shrewdly as he deals them in.

They aren’t playing for big money, tossing in pennies to bet, even though they are all flush with cash at the moment. Between the bounties on the bandits and Al’s payment, they’ll be able to coast for some time. But this is a game for fun, not for keeps. Bets go around the table once and then again.

Arabella grins, eyebrow arched in a manner that borders flirtatious and fatal. Miriam and Aly fold.

“I’ll bet you a drink that my hand is better,” Clayton replies, oozing confidence. She hums noncommittally. 

“I’ll take that bet,” Matthew replies. 

Clayton blinks, slowly turning to him. “Is that so, Reverend?”

Matthew meets him head on, tilting his head in that slightly odd way that makes him go from disarming to _dangerous_. He pitches his voice low, gravel dark. “_Frightened_, Mister Sharpe?” It’s a little vindicating when he notes the way Clayton’s pupils react. It’s nice to know he can still unnerve someone as unflappable as Clayton Sharpe. Still, Clayton isn’t one to retreat at the first sign of intimidation. He raises a penny and Arabella folds, content to watch it play out between the two of them. Matthew meets. Clayton bets again and Matthew doubles, calling it. 

“Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Clayton flips over his cards with a grin. Arabella whistles, low and impressed. She looks over at Matthew. “A running flush. That’s hard to beat.”

Matthew reveals his hand, fanning the cards out. “A prial. Threes.”

“Oh damn,” Aloysius says under his breath.

Clayton sucks a disappointed hiss through his teeth. “Well played.” 

Clayton raises his hand to signal to Dan to bring them another round of drinks, but Matthew, in a feat of bravery or stupidity, reaches over and snags the glass in front of Clayton instead. He tosses it back, quick and burning. Fermented cider, hard and crisp, sears his tongue. He slams it to the table and resolutely does not think about his lips pressing against the same slick glass rim Clayton’s had been and the taste of apples in his mouth. 

“Oh _damn!_” Aloysius repeats, barking out an incredulous laugh. 

Clayton stares at him with eyes set like ice chips in his blank face. “Mighty uncalled for, Reverend.” His words are calm. Too calm. "Care to make it double or nothing?" 

"If you like," Matthew replies, ignoring the way a shiver works its way down his back. Matthew ends up folding against a grinning Aloysius who sweeps Clayton’s pair with a straight. He reaches over and turns over Matthew’s cards, quick as a viper, revealing nothing but numbers.

“Well, looks like you owe me a drink, Father.”

“Now, now, I won that round, Mister Sharpe,” Aloysius says, scooping up his little pile of pennies. “Fair and square.”

Clayton smirks. “That you did, Mister Fogg, but that wasn’t the bet. It was who got the better _hand_, not who won the round.” He casts a steel eye Matthew’s direction. “Which means the good Reverend needs to pay up.”

That was the wording of the bet made and Matthew is willing to honor it. “Very well,” he gestures at Dan and a moment later Johnny is at their table setting down a fresh bottle. He fills both of their tumblers. Matthew moves to raise his glass in the beginnings of a toast. Clayton snatches up the whiskey from his hand before he can even object. Clayton holds his eyes and brings the glass to his mouth. Matthew watches as he swallows. The bob of Clayton's Adam's apple causes his gaze to slip downwards before forcing it back up. This is no quick draw. Clayton drinks slow, savoring it. He sets it down, exhales with relish. 

Heat settles languid in Matthew's belly, like a coiled snake. 

“Stealing from a man of god is bad form, Mister Sharpe,” Matthew says, with mock severity. 

"You started it. Don't be mad cause I finished it." Clayton grins, smug as anything. 

“If you two have finished flirtin’ I’d like to play the next round.”

Clayton’s expression shutters closed. 

“_Aloysius_,” Miriam says, something pleading in her gaze. He glances up, notes the sudden strained atmosphere. 

“Oh. Uh, pardon me, fellas. I misspoke.”

“It’s all right, Mister Fogg,” Matthew says, using his shepherding voice, the one that smooths over rough edges between even rougher folk. “I, perhaps, got too caught up in the spirit of competition. Go on and deal the hands.”

Matthew fights to regain their sense of good cheer over the course of the night, unwilling to let a slip of the tongue ruin their evening. Clayton eventually begins to engage with them once more, thanks to Matthew’s merry involvement and plenty of drink. 

* * *

At the end of the night, they all stumble out of the saloon on less than steady feet.

“Who’s walkin Matthew back?” Clayton asks, the most sober out of all of them, or at least, the best at pretending it. 

Matthew waves him off, flushed with whiskey and victory as he'd taken the largest pot of the night. His pockets jangle with pennies. “Oh, _pffff_. I’ll be just fine.”

Clayton’s mouth thins. “The church is on the outskirts of town and there ain’t much respect for the holy sanctuary in Deadwood.”

He looks over to the women and Aloysius. Matthew watches as Clayton does the math with ridiculous affection. Arabella needs dropped off at her house, and Miriam and Aloysius are both staying at the Bullock. Both are on the opposite side from the church. “You get ‘Bella home,” Clayton decides. “I’ll walk him back.”

“Are you sure?” Miriam asks, leaning heavily on Arabella. “I can go with you.”

“Then who would keep Mister Fogg in line?” he asks, a bit wry. 

Matthew snickers. Aloysius is a few steps away, singing in that sweet rusty tone of his. She smiles. “Very well then. Do let us know when you’ve returned, would you?” 

Clayton dips his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

Matthew puts his hands on his hips, a mite offended at being patronized. “I’ll have you know that I am a fully grown individual who can handle the fifteen minute walk to my own church.”

He’s met with various looks of drunken skepticism. It hits just a bit too honest. He throws up a rude gesture at them and walks off. The sound of Clayton’s footsteps quicken to catch up. Matthew keeps up his pace, using the advantage of his longer legs to make Clayton work for it a little, even if his gait isn't as steady. 

“It ain’t like that,” Clayton says. 

“Like what,” Matthew answers stiffly. Clayton grabs his arm and attempts to pull him to a halt. Matthew is very tempted to make the point that he is quite capable of dragging a man of Clayton’s weight and keep walking, but he lets the cold anchor of his fingers stop him. The ground tilts a little, before settling.

“I know you can take care of yourself, Matthew.” Clayton's words are soft and sincere.

Matthew huffs, refusing to look at him.

“We all do, all right, we’ve been in enough firefights together to know that. Just...let me walk you to the church. For my own peace of mind.”

Matthew recalls the growing paranoia that seems to have increasingly taken up in Clayton and sighs. It was, perhaps, a bit presumptuous to read ill motives into his desire. “Fine.”

Clayton exhales. Matthew feels a bit bad, now, but it seems the mistaken assumption is all but forgotten as Clayton releases him and begins the walk again, shoulder to shoulder. 

It’s not quiet, exactly. Even this late, a place like Deadwood is still moving with people. Ladies of the night beckon their marks and there’s plenty of shady deals brokering in the alleyways between buildings. But that’s reassuring, in its own way. The sounds fade the further out they get until they stand before the newly rebuilt home of his. It's a long enough walk for him to sober up a little. 

Clayton halts a good ten, fifteen feet from the front door of the church and never any closer. The nearby lantern casts his shadow oddly. Matthew proceeds forward, pauses at the doorway. His tongue is still looser than it ought to be, so he asks, “You ever going to step foot inside these doors?” 

Clayton smiles like the glint of a blade in the dark. “Goodnight, Reverend.”

Matthew can’t help but smile in response, wide and warm. “G'night, Clay.”

* * *

Clayton is standing under the very same lantern post when Matthew walks outside the church to greet the new day. 

"Mister Sharpe," Matthew says, a bit startled. If he hadn’t known better, he’d almost think Clayton had spent the night there, but his shirt is different from the one before and his boots are less dusty.

He does not offer any explanation as to why he is there or why he is waiting outside. 

"I was about to go get myself something to eat," Matthew offers up, a bit awkward. Clayton merely nods and falls into step with him. 

Silence stretches out between them. Matthew looks over. Clayton must not be feeling particularly chatty this morning, not that he ever does. Matthew can't help but notice the soft purple circles taking up residence under his friend's eyes. He ensures they find a quiet corner of the Gem to eat breakfast at. Clayton puts his back to the wall and some of the tension bleeds out of his frame. Matthew silently congratulates himself for a job well done. 

Johnny brings them a plate each and a bottle of whiskey, which Matthew does not partake of this early in the day. Clayton sips at a glass liberally filled with ice while eating, glancing up to take in the room now and then. Gunshots pop off, loud and quick, somewhere outside, followed by the loud retort of a shotgun. The talk inside the saloon quiets for a moment, just long enough to tell whether trouble would be coming this way, before picking back up again. 

Clayton has wound up tight, muscles tense. 

Matthew shifts his legs, presses one of his knees against Clayton's—a solid, grounding pressure—and keeps eating. Johnny had been kind enough to pile Matthew's plate high with eggs and sausage and ham so he won't have to request a second helping. After a long moment, Clayton returns to his food. They're quick, efficient bites, far from the unhurried manner of before, but he'll take it as a small victory. Matthew settles back in his chair, the wood creaking, and hums with contentment. A new morning and a full belly. 

A small boy slips his way into the saloon. He darts between patrons and sprawled out legs and winds his way over to their table. Sharpe tracks him with wary eyes. His hand slips beneath the table. Matthew presses his knee harder and does not look over. “Mister Reverend, sir.” The boy takes his flat cap hat off and fidgets with it. “We need ya at the doc's office. Got three fresh ones for last rites.”

Matthew sighs and reluctantly gets to his feet. Hopefully his breakfast has had enough time to settle. 

No one is taking any chances, these days. Seems you can't be too careful after the dead walk the streets, all the recently deceased get their religious dues, no matter who they are. Matthew had tried to mention he gave Cynthia Whitlock her last rites himself, but it had fallen on deaf ears. So now he is summoned at any time of day to pray over the dead. 

To his surprise, Clayton gets up with him. "Stay," Matthew tells him. "Finish your drink, I won't be long."

"If it's all the same," Clayton says. 

Matthew expects more to follow, but nothing else follows. He blinks. "...Very well." 

Clayton doesn't wear the face of a man you want to argue with. 

They follow the boy out. He stares up at them, cheeks pink and eyes bright with youth. "Sorry to bother you so early, sir. I was told to fetch you right quick."

"It's all right," Matthew says patiently. "One does not get to pick a convenient time for such things."

Clayton snorts beside him. 

"'Parently there was a kerfuffle outside the Bella Union. Was told they gotta get 'em in the ground swiftlike, since undertaker says they aren't worth the formaldehyde t' pickle 'em," the boy says, jogging slightly to keep up with their longer legs. 

"Undertaker?" Clayton asks. 

"Mister Lennox," Matthew tells him. 

"Thought he was the carpenter." Clayton raises a brow, the gesture nearly lost under the brim of his hat. 

Matthew nods. "He’s that, too."

"There was talk of maybe burnin' em, instead, but Mister Lennox objected somethin' fierce," the boy chimes in. 

"I'd imagine he's getting plenty of work making pine overcoats for the dearly departed," Clayton remarks dryly. Death was good business in a town like Deadwood. "You think he'd made me one?" he asks jokingly.

Any good humor he'd had is gone in an instant, like a snuffed out candle. Matthew feels sick. "Don't," he says with clipped syllables, "don't make light of it. Not right now. Please."

Not when he's about to recite holy words over men who died by the retort of a gun in the street.

Clayton, for his part, takes in Matthew's face and nods. "My apologies, Reverend. It was insensitive of me."

Matthew swallows down the burn of old sorrow and picks up his pace. 

They reach the doctor's office. Clayton looks down at the boy, still following them, probably chasing the excitement. "What’s your name?" 

"Jack," he says proudly. "Jack Ealey, sir!"

"You go tell Lennox that we'll be finished up here shortly. Then I think it's time for you to run on home, Jack Ealey," he tells him sternly, but hands him a quarter to soften the command.

Jack looks at the coin in awe and quickly ferrets it away. "Thank ya, sir!" he says and scampers off. 

Matthew blinks at Clayton, eyebrows raised. 

"_Shuddup_." Clayton pushes the door to the doctor’s open and waits for Matthew to pass by. 

He obeys, but tucks the knowledge away into his meager collection of what exactly makes up a man like Clayton Sharpe. 

He steps inside and sees three bodies, sheets draped over their forms. He moves forward and peels back the stained covering. One is mostly faceless, sickening gristle and bone. Blown open and scattered with pellets. Katy's work, no doubt. The others are more intact. One has a chest soaked red and coagulating into a crust, the other open from a gutshot and already smelling something awful. 

Gore and blood and death are not an unfamiliar sight to him, but still, his stomach turns. He quells his nausea and pulls the sheet back over them. 

“This bothers you.” Clayton watches him like a predator sated, idly and unconcerned. 

Matthew’s mouth tightens. The scar on his cheek pulls funny, so he smooths his expression as best he can. “Of course it does." He looks at the sorry remains with pity. “No one will mourn these men.”

"Mourning in your job description?” 

"No." The word is short and solemn, a tangle of trauma packed into a single syllable. 

Clayton, apparently, has nothing further to add, so Matthew takes a breath to steady himself before beginning. 

“Blessed is our God, always now and ever, and unto the ages of ages,” Matthew begins. He hears the soft hush of material and the creak of leather as Clayton settles his weight against the door frame. "Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven." 

He glances up at his companion. The light slants down, casting Mister Sharpe in shadow even as it highlights the edge of his shoulder, the line of his throat as he keeps his head tilted, one ear towards the door. His eyes are closed, listening. He looks tired. Despite how familiar the words are, Matthew's tongue nearly trips over them. He closes his eyes as well and focuses. 

"Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil." He crosses himself. "Amen."

The next part is not quite verbatim, but it’s served him well for the people here, as much an anything can. "Have mercy upon them, O God, according to thy loving kindness: according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies blot out their transgressions. Wash them thoroughly from their iniquity, and cleanse them from their sin. _Amen_.”

It's a shorter rite than some, but despite the tragedy of violence and death, he has no desire to stand and recite psalm after psalm. 

"Is that what you said over me?" Clayton asks, voice quiet. 

Matthew doesn't turn around to look at him. "No," he answers, voice abruptly raw. "I prayed far longer over you, Mister Sharpe."

Red blotches spread from where the sheet fell differently than before. It's an unwelcome reminder that life in Deadwood is an ugly thing. 

* * *

They leave the office, but stepping out into the sunshine does little to lift Matthew's mood. He walks alongside Clayton without thought, not noticing where they are going, mind caught up in past thoughts.

Clayton halts and Matthew almost runs into him at the unexpected stop. He takes a seat at the bench Matthew is now realizing is next to them. Leather clad fingers slip to his wrist. Clayton tugs with the intention of pulling him down to the bench, but Matthew easily resists.

"What are you doing?"

"Fuckin' sit down already, Mason." He tugs again and Matthew lets himself be coaxed to the bench. He looks curiously at Clayton, but he's busy scanning the thoroughfare. "Just take it in for a moment. Don't worry, I'm keepin' watch."

It strikes Matthew, then, the way that Clayton has decided to dog at his heels like a particularly determined hound. Always keeping his eyes peeled and his ears open despite the slow stiff way that he moves as of late, like he's exhausted, but too stubborn to let it stop him.

He's keeping guard.

Matthew is glad Clayton isn't witness to whatever expression effuses his face in that moment. It was sure to be embarrassing. Still, he does as he's bid and takes it in. The noise and the bustle of Deadwood's main street is ample distraction as Matthew watches the comings and goings.

Children play marbles and hawkers try to sell their wares and someone yelps as a dentist pulls a bad tooth. It's _life_, teeming around them. A few minutes and Clayton removes his jacket, but makes no suggestion to continue on. Their knees press together like they had at breakfast. Matthew finds he's the one grounded by it this time. A few people stop by to chat. Parishioners, or the rare individual brave enough to speak with Mister Sharpe.

A young lady stops by, all smiles and rosy cheeks. Her face is familiar, but Matthew cannot put a name to it. "Lovely sermon last week, Father," she says, looking up at him through her lashes.

"Oh, thank you, my child." Matthew is quite pleased someone appreciated it.

Clayton shifts in his seat a little, legs sprawled wide, drapes his arm along the back edge of the bench.

"I've always liked the scriptures about the garden, but I must admit, I believe the apple gets a bad reputation for how lovely a fruit it is. Wouldn't you agree?"

Matthew nods. "I would. I love apples, myself." The sharp, half remembered taste of cider and cool mint washes over his tongue.

Her eyes brighten. "I'm making an apple pie for dinner tonight. Perhaps we can offer you some hospitality this evening?" She angles her head coyly.

Oh. Matthew abruptly feels like a fool. A ruse of a different sort. She has less interest in his sermons than he had thought. It’s not as brazen as the ladies at the saloon, but this is its own presentation. He covers his mistake with an easy smile. "I thank you most kindly for the consideration, but I'm afraid I already am spoken for concernin' this evening," Matthew tells her. A small lie. He's made no formal plans, but he has no doubt he'll be eating dinner with at least one of their little group. The outside of Clayton's leg brushes his.

Disappointment paints her face. "That's too bad. Perhaps another time, Reverend Mason."

He capitulates. "Maybe so."

She looks at Clayton, a sudden shrewdness to her gaze. "Mister Sharpe."

He touches the brim of his hat in farewell. Matthew settles back against the bench and attempts to let the embarrassment fade.

"Not interested?" Clayton asks, an odd note in his voice.

The woman is beautiful, no doubt. Her eyes had been warm, but it carried the sickly sweetness that covered the scent of something rotten. Her voice was soft, as was her body, but Matthew had lost his appetite for softness long ago.

Matthew thinks of cold eyes and warm fires. He thinks of rough voices and rough hands. He thinks of sincerity carefully hidden away, like a secret too dangerous to tell. "No," Matthew says softly. "I don't have interest in the temptations of such things."

Clayton's jaw shifts for a moment, like he's chewing something over. "Makes sense, for a preacher."

"Well-" Matthew begins, ready to correct the assumption that he's not tempted at _all_, versus not tempted by _this_ particular lady when Clayton's face goes abruptly pale. Clayton bolts to his feet, hand on his gun, half drawn, eyes frantically searching the crowds.

Matthew quickly stands as well, trying to see whatever had spooked his friend so thoroughly. "Mister Sharpe?"

Clayton blinks. Swallows. The beat of his pulse at his throat is fast, too fast.

"Are you all right?"

He doesn’t answer, but in the next moment he's striding forward into the crowd of people like the devil set a fire under him. Matthew scrambles to catch up. When he turns into the alley that Clayton had vanished around he sees him, standing there, as if he’d seen a ghost.

“Clayton?”

He turns to look at him over his shoulder, but there’s something wrong in his eyes, something unhinged. “Did you see him?” he asks.

“Who?” Matthew asks, baffled at the sudden vehemence.

“The- the man. Standing there. Dark eyes, dark hair, just fuckin’ staring at me.”

“I didn’t see anyone staring at you,” Matthew answers honestly, but he hadn't been looking for it. 

Clayton sets to roving the mouth of the alley back and forth. “He was right here, I know it. I _saw _it.”

Matthew looks, but he can see no sign of a man, the only boot prints in the dust seem to be their own. Clayton makes another frenzied circuit.

"Clayton," Matthew reaches out, forcing him to stop pacing.

"Don't-" He immediately attempts to shake himself free. "Don't put your goddamned hands on me."

Remembering the last time Matthew tried to take hold of him in an agitated state, he instantly releases him. Clayton stands there, tie askew, jacket rumpled, faintly trembling.

Matthew holds his hands out to his sides. "I apologize if I made you uncomfortable, Mister Sharpe. It was never my intention-"

"I ain't fucking uncomfortable, Reverend," Clayton snaps.

"...All right," Matthew allows, though he would argue otherwise.

His placidity only seems to provoke Clayton further. He rounds on him, stepping right up into his space until Matthew can see nothing but furious, fevered, eyes.

"I ain't ever _fucking_ uncomfortable. Not when you look at me or-or touch me, or steal my goddamn whiskey. I ain't fucking _uncomfortable_."

"Of course not," Matthew says. "I didn't mean to imply..." He's not quite sure what to say.

"Do you have any idea?" Clayton shoves at him. Hard. Matthew stumbles back. "Do you have any goddamned idea in that _stupid_ fucking head of yours?" He pushes him again. Matthew is just about to bring his hands up in some sort of defense when-

"_Clayton Sharpe_." Miriam's voice cracks through the air like a whip.

"The hell is going on here?" Aloysius asks, looking at the two of them with horror.

"A misunderstanding, I'm sure." Miriam looks between them with a disapproving gaze.

_Matthew_ certainly doesn't understand.

"Fuck," Clayton says, pushing his palms against his eyes. "Fucking goddamn _shit_."

"Certainly sums it up," Aloysius says, folding his arms.

“Sweetheart,” Miriam says, some thread of caution in her tone. She puts a hand on Matthew’s shoulder and applies a slight pressure to make him step back. “Give Mister Sharpe his space.”

Clayton shakes himself all over. "I'm fine." The words scrape out of his throat. "Thought I saw- but I must have been mistaken. It's nothing. I’m fine." He takes a quick step to the side, angling his shoulder defensively, but his breathing is still too quick and his hands shake. “It was just fucking smoke or my imagination, _fuck_. I’m fine.”

It sounds more like Clayton is trying to convince himself.

"Of course you are, sugar.” Miriam voice placates delicately. Her demeanor had switched from chastising to soothing the moment she took in Clayton's disposition. She doesn’t move any closer. “You’re here and we’re here with you. Are you here with us, Clayton Sharpe?”

“I’m here,” he says, the word desperate in a way Matthew’s never heard from Clayton before, not even when he was gasping back to life, like he’s holding it together by the skin of his teeth. “I’m here.”

“You wanna take a seat, let us know what’s goin’ on?” Aloysius asks carefully. “We know you've been...mighty jittery recently."

"No.” The word is desperate and tight. “No. I'm not- not fit for company," he says. "You go on ahead."

"Clayton...” Matthew steps forward, but Clayton skitters back, kicking up dust.

"No, don't-" He puts a hand up. “Just leave me be.”

“All right, Mister Sharpe,” Miriam says, “take your time.”

He falters backwards, one step, then another, before turning into the crowd. Matthew quickly loses sight of him. It seems to be Matthew's lot in life to watch Clayton Sharpe walk away.

Aloysius chews on his lip. "Somethin' goin' on with him. Somethin' bad."

Miriam meets Matthew's worried gaze. "Has he said anything to you?"

Ice chills down his spine. "About whatever that was?" Matthew shakes his head. "Not a word."

* * *

Clayton doesn't return for dinner. He doesn't show for breakfast. It seems like a recurrent pattern with him. He vanishes for days only to return like he'd never been absent at all. 

But this time it’s different. 

Whatever it was that spooked Clayton so thoroughly has altered his behavior more severely. Two days pass. Then a week. It's more than just avoiding them or getting some space in order to come back with a cooler head. Even Al Swearengen has tried to get a hold of Sharpe, but apparently he isn't balking at thinly veiled threats to ‘show the _fuck _up in his office’. 

Miriam frets. She tells them that she spoke to Sol at the Bullock hotel. "Food has been sent up and eaten, but that there's been no sign of Mister Sharpe coming or going,_ if_ he is coming and going. Far as anyone can tell, he's still in his room. I pressed my ear to the door, but couldn't hear anything."

"Maybe he skipped town? Didn't seem like the type of fella for goodbyes," Aloysius says. Arabella smacks him. "Ow!" 

"He didn't leave town." Her words are firm. 

“I know I told him to take his time, but...” Miriam hesitates. "Perhaps we should let ourselves in, just to check on him." 

"You suggesting we break into the room of a paranoid sharpshooter having some sort of mental crisis?" Aloysius asks. "I ain't saying no, I just want to be clear what we're doin'."

Miriam straightens her shoulders. "If that's what it takes."

Arabella picks the lock. Matthew shifts his weight from one foot to another as he watches her work. Surely, if Clayton were inside, he’d have heard the scratching and clicking of Arabella’s tools, discreet though they were. The door pops free and Arabella grins with victory, stepping back to let Miriam and Matthew pass. Aloysius takes up guard at the door. 

The room smells musty. The shades are drawn and the bed is unmade. Clayton sits in his chair, backed up into a corner, revolver in hand. Matthew steps forward and delicately takes it from him. Clayton watches with sunken and bloodshot eyes as the revolver is set out of arm's reach. Miriam takes a deep breath and begins to speak. It’s either the sternest comfort or the gentlest disquisition Matthew's ever heard. 

It's kind in the way a broken bone is kind, if it's begun to heal wrong. 

Clayton listens to it all without speaking. When she’s finally run out of steam, he addresses her. “Your concern is duly noted.” He directs his gaze over to Matthew. His pupils are large, eating up the grey. “If you would kindly escort Missus Landisman back to her hotel room, I would be much obliged.”

Miriam flinches, as if Clayton had struck a physical blow. Clayton's mouth tightens at the sight of it, but he does not apologize. 

“Come, Miriam. You’ve done what you felt you must.” His voice pitches low. “The rest is on Mister Sharpe, whether he wishes to share his burdens with us or not.”

Miriam’s mouth screws up tight and for a moment he fears she will burst into tears. “You’re right.” She lets him gently draw her from the room. “Thank you for listening, Mister Sharpe.”

Matthew pauses at the door. “We, your friends, care very much for you. Myself, especially so. I hope you know that you can come to us for aid of any sort. We would not turn you away.” Clayton says nothing in response, so Matthew sighs and shuts the door behind him. It feels disturbingly like closing a lid on a coffin.

Miriam’s grip on his arm is tight. “Thank you for going with me, Father.”

“Of course. I’m worried about him, too. Especially of late.”

“And thank you two, for helping,” she directs to Aloysius and Arabella. 

Arabella touches Miriam’s elbow. “You did what you could. There’s no helping someone who isn’t willing to take it. I would know.” She smiles, a pained, lopsided thing. “Why don’t you come round mine and we’ll have some tea, all right?” Miriam nods and lets herself be transferred from Matthew’s arm to Arabella’s. Aloysius gives him a solemn nod and retreats to his own room.

Matthew returns to the church with a heavy heart. 

* * *

He spends the evening in prayer, ticking off one after the other on his rosary until the tips of his fingers grow desensitized. His knees creak when he gets to his feet and makes his way up to his bedroom. Shrugging off his leather duster and his raiments, he unbuttons his outer shirt and kicks his shoes free, leaving him in his undershirt and trousers. He doesn’t bother with much more than that, flopping down on his bed to stare listlessly at the ceiling. A yawning emptiness aches in his chest. There is nothing to be done about it. 

His sleep is fitful and light, which is why he comes awake at the sound of the church doors closing. Matthew sits up. There’s footsteps. He thinks of Clayton’s words about how folk in Deadwood don’t share the same respect for the sanctity of this building as most other places.

Carefully, as silent as possible, he swings his legs over the edge of the bed. Matthew is a big man, he knows, but he can be quiet when he needs to be. He reaches for the shotgun where he keeps it, near the bedside table, and checks its loaded. It is. Matthew gets to his feet.

Someone is going to deeply regret trying to rob his church.

* * *

Matthew avoids the squeaky boards of his stairs. He eases his back against the wall and peers around the corner. A few candles have been lit and there’s a lantern on one of the pews, no doubt taken from the pole outside. He doesn’t see anyone. He takes another step down onto the main floor, keeping on the balls of his feet.

He glances towards the pulpit, but his bible is still there, spread open, where he left it. The candle holders, though meager in worth, are shiny enough to attract a thief’s eye, but they are all accounted for.

If it weren’t for the misplaced lantern, Matthew might have believed he’d imagined it. He keeps the gun aimed at his side.

“Matthew.”

Fear spikes, painfully sharp. He spins and it’s only that the silhouette is so familiar to him that Clayton Sharp doesn’t end up dead. Again. Matthew jerks the muzzle up and away, instantly removing his fingers from near the trigger.

"_Jesus, Mary and Joseph_, Clay! You scared the _shit_ out of me. I could have _shot _you."

Clayton’s eyes go wide in the face of his sudden anger. "I apologize, I shouldn't have- this was a mistake."

The frightened ire bleeds out of Matthew as soon as it’d come. It's strange to see Clayton inside the church, both wrong and somehow right. It’s even stranger to see him without his hat, without the wide brim casting his face into shadows. It makes him seem exposed, young, the steady lantern light revealing his features. His shoulders seem thinner without the coat. He's only in a light shirt, haphazardly buttoned. 

Still, he's more dressed than Matthew is. He's realizing he's down to his undershirt, the small fastenings at the front undone, the material falling open to expose his throat. He thanks God that at least his trousers are buttoned.

"It's late, you were in bed, I ought to- to-" The words are jumbled, the edges slurred slightly. 

Matthew blinks. "Have you been drinking?"

"No." The word is defensive. Clayton wavers on his feet. "Yes. Mayhaps a little. I didn't mean to wake you. I just came fr- I just came-" He doesn’t seem able to grasp the end of his thought. The reason doesn’t matter, he’s here now. Matthew sets the gun down.

"Just sit for a moment," Matthew urges and Clayton all but collapses into the pew. "Why don't you tell me what brought you here to my door in this ungodly hour."

“You said you wouldn’t- wouldn’t turn me away.”

“Of course, I won't." He tries to inject as much sincerity into his promise as he can.

Clayton’s hair is pulled back into a short tail, but stands have slipped free to frame his face. It makes him look...softer.

"I ain't been sleepin', Matt."

The shortened version of his name startles him.

"I keep thinking I'm seeing familiar faces, faces from my past looking at me, but when I turn, no one is there. I feel like I'm going crazy, like I'm gonna crawl out of my own skin."

"Faces from your past?"

Silence falls for a long time, long enough that Matthew thinks that perhaps Clayton isn't going to say anything at all when he finally speaks. His words trail and halt in odd ways. From nerves or drink, Matthew cannot tell.

"There are things not frowned upon here in Deadwood that ain't found to be as...acceptable in other places." Clayton looks deeply uncomfortable.

Matthew resits the urge to snort. Just about everything that took place in Deadwood isn't found to be as acceptable in other places. Regardless, he's quick to reassure his friend. "Whatever you say here is in confidence, Clayton. I swear it."

His hands flex. His fingers bear the calluses of a gunslinger. "I have tastes that...run peculiar to most. Never found womenfolk to my liking."

Matthew's mouth runs dry. Oh. That- that puts a few things into a different perspective. "Ah," he says eloquently.

"It- it was a long time ago. I was young and stupid. I'd fallen in with a bad crowd. We practically ran the whole goddamn town. There was a man. Handsome. Charming. Sweet, when he wanted to be." He laughs, a cracked, humorless thing, like thin ice. "I'm not sure whether you would have loved him or hated him, to be honest."

Matthew smiles. "The former, I'm sure, if he managed to catch your liking."

"I doubt that, Preacher. He could be a right bastard at times, believe me." The briefest smile touches Clayton's mouth before vanishing.

"What was his name?" Matthew asks. "This man you cared for."

"James." The syllable cracks midway through. "James Harvey."

Matthew takes a moment to absorb that. "A strong name."

"Not strong enough. We thought we were being discreet, that no one knew. His- his brother discovered us. James told me to run and, to my everlasting shame, I did."

Clayton stops, throat bobbing. Matthew waits. If it’s one thing his faith has taught him, it’s how to wait.

"His brother had him hanged the next day. Swore I'd be strung up too, if it were the last thing he did." Clayton's jaw clenches. "I was wanted in connection with what happened, been declared guilty of it. No one would've believed me against his brother's word, and what the two of us had been doin' was a killable offense anyways, so I ran."

"It wasn't your fault." Matthew wants to reach out, to comfort, but he doesn't know if it will be welcome. Clayton is volatile and mercurial when it comes to taction at the best of times. He keeps his hands where they are.

Clayton shakes his head, strands of hair falling loose. "I might not have put the rope around his neck, but I killed him all the same."

"His brother is the only one responsible for what happened, Clayton." Matthew tries again, voice firm. "You didn't kill James. He did."

Clayton stares at his hands for a long moment and does not speak. The candlelight glints too brightly in his eyes, shiny with unshed tears. He clears his throat once, and then again.

Speaking about Clayton's, thankfully temporary, death is always painful, but Matthew makes himself ask the question. "Does this have something to do with why Mister Fogg was looking for you?" 

Clayton nods. "Yeah. It's exactly the reason."

"I see." Clayton was innocent of the very crime he'd been killed for. Anger churns, slow and patient, in Matthew's blood.

"Been on the move ever since. Had some close calls once or twice. Believe me, I've- I've done some bad things in my time. I'm real good with a gun, found work where I could. Never really stopped running, til now." He breathes in, wet and ragged. “That day in the thoroughfare, I thought I saw his face. I could have _sworn_ it was him, that fucker, looking right at me.”

No wonder Clayton had been so crazed. So...frightened.

“I finally feel like- like I have a place here, in Deadwood. Crazy, batshit insane town that it is. And it’s going to be taken away from me.” His hands clench into fists.

“It won’t,” Matthew refutes.

Clayton shakes his head. “You can’t know that, maybe only your God can know that.”

“That may be so, but I know, and God knows, that you have friends who will stick by you, Clayton. No matter what. Not even death itself could keep you from us. We will always come for you.”

“All right,” Clayton gives in. “All right.” Matthew's pulse jumps when Clayton's head slips onto his shoulder. "I haven't been sleepin'." His repeated confession is nearly inaudible.

Matthew risks a brief touch, finger pads brushing smooth hair, down to a bristly jaw. "Then rest awhile, Clay. The Lord and I will watch over you."

"You make a compellin' argument. Just this once."

Matthew merely hums in response.

Clayton's muscles gradually relax, eyes fluttering closed. Matthew holds very, very still until Clayton's breathing deepens into a steady, slow rhythm. He swallows and carefully leans his cheek against the top of Clayton's head, if only to keep the man from tipping forward.

Matthew sits there and thinks. He's got some connections, but Miriam and Arabella certainly have more. They could track down this man. They could help put Clayton's mind at rest. And if Matthew makes sure Clayton never had to be scared of this man again? So be it. It wouldn't be the first grave he's filled.

Determining enough time had passed for his charge to be moved without waking, Matthew carefully slips an arm under Clayton's legs, the other braced at his back. Clayton's by no means a small man, but Matthew has lifted heavier. In one smooth move, he shifts Clayton to his chest and stands.

The last time Matthew had carried him like this, Clayton had been dead. He tries not to think of the heavy weight of limp limbs as he begins to walk. Clayton is cool, but not cold, and Matthew presses his fingers to the man's ribs and lets the steady movement of inhale and exhale reassure him.

It's not the most dignified of arrangements, Clayton would surely object to being cradled like a child, but he isn't awake to complain. Matthew takes the stairs, one at a time, avoiding the boards that creak, and settles Clayton into his own bed. He removes Clayton's boots and pulls the covers over his shoulders. He turns away to figure out what to do with himself when Clayton's hand whips out to grip his forearm with tight fingers, eyes burning in the shadows like chips of glacier.

"It's all right," Matthew soothes automatically. "You're all right, you're safe here, Clayton."

"Thank you, Reverend."

Everything he's learned tonight has been spoken under the same level of secrecy as any formal confession. Matthew's own burgeoning feelings will remain unvoiced. He just smiles, knowing his damned expressible face will give away his fondness, even in the dark. The rest he will keep to himself. "You're welcome, my son."

Clayton's grip goes slack, drifting back to the bed and he falls into slumber as easily as he'd surfaced from it. Matthew sits in his chair and studies Clayton in the meager light. The soft wisps of hair that drift in his face, the slightly uneven slope of his nose. Matthew is struck by the desire to smooth the hair out of the other man's face, to press a kiss to his forehead.

He thinks of the Dealer's question, the strange voice echoing in his head. He takes a delicate breath around the hole the _want_ has eaten into his chest and releases it. Clayton is not his to take.

Eventually, sleep finds him as well.

* * *

Matthew snaps awake at the touch of a hand on his shoulder. Clayton’s grey-blue eyes stare down at him. They’re clearer and steadier than they were the night before. The sleep did him good. 

“Clayton,” Matthew says, voice rough with sleep.

“Hey,” he whispers. “It’s still early yet, why don’t you get back in your own bed? I can take the chair.”

Matthew muzzily shakes his head. “‘M up, I’m up. Put some coffee on, will ya?” 

Clayton chuckles under his breath. “Sure, thing.”

Matthew dozes to the sound of Clayton opening the window and starting to heat up the coffee. The smell of it rouses him enough that he’s fairly cognizant by the time Clayton pushes a hot mug of it into his hand. Clayton poured himself a cup and sits on the edge of the bed while they sip in the peaceful morning silence. 

“How are you feeling?” Matthew queries. 

“Better.” Clayton takes a drink. 

“Good,” Matthew smiles, “I’m glad.”

“Sorry to barge in on you last night like that.” Clayton hides his expression behind his mug, but Matthew would almost say he sounded embarrassed. 

“While I do request that most of my parishioners confess during normal hours, I’ll make a special concession for you." He makes sure his tone is warm to belay any insult. 

Ah, there’s that wry smirk he’d been hoping to provoke. 

“Mighty kind of you, Father.” 

“Yes, well, man of the cloth and all that.” He gives Clayton a smug look. 

“Humble, too,” Clayton parries. 

Matthew halfheartedly kicks at him. Clayton grins. His eyes flick over to the window, face growing grim once more. “What we discussed last night...you and I, we’re not going to have a problem?”

Matthew looks at Clayton in confusion. “Of course not. Why would we?”

Clayton looks at him like he’s stupid. “Well, you being a preacher and me being gay.”

Matthew makes a snort-like noise in the back of his throat, mug held up to his mouth. “I wasn’t always a preacher, Mister Sharpe.” He stretches his legs out a bit. “Besides, I’d alienate half my congregation if we applied the book more strictly. I ain’t giving up Brittany’s homemade cobbler for anything less than Armageddon.”

The edge of Clayton’s mouth curls.

“As for the rest of what you spoke of,” Matthew sets his mug on the bedside table and moves forward, making sure to hold Clayton’s eyes. “We're gonna figure this out. I know I speak for the rest of the group when I say no matter what you need us to do, Clay, we're there."

He swallows and nods. Sensing Matthew’s serious intent, he places his mug down as well. 

Matthew takes a deep breath and measures his words. “If you’re not opposed, I think we should call them together. You can decide how much you want to tell’em and I’ll respect that, but there’s no sense in tucking tail when you have us backing you up.”

“Fuckin' fine," Clayton grouses. "I'll talk to em. I ain't gonna argue with you, Matthew.”

He smiles. “That's a first. For now, you should head back to the Bullock. Get changed, figure out how you want to handle this. I'll wait for you and then we’ll get the others."

Clayton unexpectedly leans in and presses their foreheads together. Matthew freezes. He's- they've never been so close before, not like this. Not knowing what he knows. It would take next to nothing to bring their mouths together. That same terrible want clenches in his gut, but Matthew breathes in the sleep warm scent of him and the brief bolt of desire subsides for something else. Something warm and calm and without limit. Strands of hair tickle his face as Clayton's hands come up to press at his jaw. 

"Thank you."

He closes his eyes. “You’re welcome, Clay.”

Clayton leaves quietly, pausing at the door like he intends to say something, but then shakes his head. He tries not to think about what it will look like; Mister Sharpe, leaving his church before the sun is hardly up, barely dressed. People will talk regardless, but he’d rather spare Clayton the pain, if he could. 

He takes his time finishing his coffee, sipping and musing as he looks out the window, the light drawing brighter. He wants ensure Clayton has enough of a reprieve to decide upon a plan of action. A strange sort of contentment takes sinks in his bones. Problems face them, true, but they are not insurmountable. Not when they work together. Matthew's tempted to drink the other mug, but the coffee has gone cold, so he dumps the rest of it in the small sink. 

Matthew begins getting dressed himself. The metal of his knife is cold but for a moment as he tucks it against his boot. He pulls the leather duster on over it all. The sun is shining, clear and bright. There’s a bit of bite to the wind as the season begins to tip toward winter. Matthew pops the collar of his coat up.

Folks are beginning to set up shop, placing wares out to sell. He gets a few looks, but he’s a common sight around Deadwood these days, even if it is far earlier than he normally begins to move about town.

Matthew steps into the Bullock hotel. 

"Ah! Reverend!" Sol calls. "If I could have yer ear for a moment."

"Of course," Matthew says walking over. "Is there something I can help you with?" 

"Well, normally this would be something I'd reserve for telling Mister Sharpe hisself but he's been...a bit absent of late. It seems I missed his arrival this morn.” Sol casts a curious look at him, but Matthew keeps his face politely neutral. Sol harrumphs. “He likes us to keep an eye out for these sorts of things, you know."

"Yes, yes," Matthew says a bit impatiently. "I'll be sure to relay it to him."

"Someone came around asking about him. His name, where he was staying. An older fella, didn't look up to any good. Somethin’ bad in his eyes, like a varmint. Now most of us know better than to say anything, but everyone in Deadwood has a price. Wanted to give Mister Sharpe fair warning."

Matthew’s blood runs cold. “You didn't happen to catch the name of the individual asking questions, did you?" Clayton had the sharpest eye of them all, if he saw something, _someone_, maybe it was less imaginary than he thought. 

Sol nods. "’Course we did. A Mister Harvey. Patrick."

* * *

Matthew takes the steps two at a time. He rushes into the hallway, heart pounding. The wood of Clayton’s door is splintered open. Matthew feels the sudden absence of his shotgun at his side or his Starr revolver at his back and mourns the lack of forethought. He pulls his blade from his boot. Better than nothing. He braces his palm against the peeling finish of the door and slowly pushes it open.

The room is trashed. Drawers are ripped from the dresser, clothes and items strewn carelessly along the floor. An ominous blood spatter glances one wall, a smaller pool of it on the floor followed by a smear towards the door. 

Two revolvers are on the ground, near the bed. 

Clayton is gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> D:


	3. the heart is a fist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War. 
> 
> The word rattles around in his head like the echo of mortar fire. When he closes his eyes he can practically see it, smell it. The heat of muzzle flash searing against his skin. The acrid smell of burning bodies. The sticky-slick spindrift of blood. The unnatural scream of horses and the thundering of hooves as loud as the pounding in his ears. 
> 
> Scripture echoes in his head. _'Blessed be the LORD my strength, which teacheth my hands to war...'_
> 
> He may not know networking or how to choose the right words at the proper time or the way to execute a proposition...but Matthew knows war.
> 
> And he's about to wage it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter count has been upped again, sorry :)

Matthew stares at the room in shock, heart pounding. No. The word resounds in his head. No. _No_. 

“Clayton?” The name is hushed. “Clayton!” This time it’s a shout, hoarse and cracked, even though he knows there will be no answer. He needs- he needs to figure out his next move. He needs to find Clayton. Nothing else matters. The floorboards creak from his weight as he hurries forward. Hope, frantic, desperate hope, prompts it from him again. “_Clayton_!” 

There’s a noise from outside. Matthew snatches up Clay’s revolvers. The steel is icy. Adrenaline skitters through his veins. Were they still close? Did they come back to clean up their mess? He pushes his back to the wall, clicks back the hammer on his borrowed gun and faces the entrance. He watches as the door slowly opens with a creak. A dark head begins to peer in.

He has a gun pointed before he can think. The head turns. His finger curls around the trigger. And then Miriam is looking at him with dark, startled eyes. 

“Matthew?” 

He yanks his hand down. “_Goddammit_, people need to stop creepin’ up on me!” This is the second time he’s nearly blown a hole in one of his friends. He feels rattled, something fundamental and deep in him shaken wrong. A cracked cornerstone. 

Miriam visibly swallows, but to her credit, doesn’t react further. “Matthew,” she says again, her voice too calm. “You want to tell me what’s going on?

“They’ve taken Clayton.” He shoves the guns into his waistband. "I need to find him."

She looks at the state of the room, sees enough, and her mouth pulls tight. “Why don’t you step outside with me for a moment?” She’s using that voice, that same high, soothing tone she’d used with Clayton when he’d been near to losing it. 

He moves forward, haltingly and then all at once, carefully avoiding the blood on the floor. “There you go sugar, you stand right here just like that.” Then she turns to beat a flat hand against a nearby room. “Aloysius!” she shouts. 

The door swings open. “What in the goddamn _thunderation _is goin’ on?” Aloysius asks, face darkened with a scowl. Miriam grips him by the elbow and tugs him into the hall.

“Something’s happened to Clayton.” Miriam’s words are undertoned and tight. 

The scowl fades into shock. "What?" 

Matthew’s hands shake. Adrenaline burns off his skin in miasmic waves. “Aly, I’ve got to- I’ve got to find him. If a man have an hundred sheep, and one of them be gone astray, doth he not leave the ninety and nine, and goeth into the mountains, and seeketh that which is gone astray?”

Aloyisus grips his shoulders. A steady grounding pressure. “I'm sure we'd be happy to go to the mountains and find him, Father, once you’re lookin’ a bit less wild around the eyes.”

“Take a deep breath, Matthew.” Miriam runs her hand down his arm like he’s some sort of cat. Part of him would be indignant if it wasn't actually helping. A slow breath fills his lungs almost automatically because it’s Miriam telling him to and it’s always wise to obey to Miriam. 

"The room's clearly been broken into." She turns. "And not by you, I figure."

"No." The panic begins to recede, clear-headedness beginning to take its place. "No, I came upon it like that."

“Tell me what happened, Matthew.” Aloysius holds eye contact. “Who did this? Why they’d want Clayton?” The world seems to narrow down to his earth dark gaze. 

He thinks of Clayton coming to him in the dead of night, his confession broken and faltering in the hallowed hollow spaces of his church. He thinks of the weight of a body pressed against his, of muscles wound too tight finally loosening. 

"I- I can’t." Agony twists in his chest. 

"Matthew, honey," Miriam begins. 

"No!" he barks, startling them both. Aloysius’s hands slip away. "By the vows I have sworn in God's name, I cannot tell you." Not when it would break his promise, to God and to Clayton. 

"All right then," Miriam allows. "What _can_ you tell us?"

Matthew thinks, licking his lips. He shifts through what he knows and what he can say. “Patrick Harvey was spotted in town.”

Aloysius’ eyes sharpen. "Is that so?" There's a note of something ugly and carious in his voice. 

Miriam looks between the two of them. "Somebody wanna fill me in?" she remarks, a bit testily. 

Aloysius looks down at her. "It was Patrick Harvey's brother that Clayton—Amos—murdered and subsequently fled."

"He is innocent of the crime in connection with James Harvey.” The words snap out before Matthew can stop them. 

Aloysius goes still. “_What_?”

“It wasn't just a case of being on the wrong side of the law. He was _innocent_, Aloysius. He told me himself,” Matthew says, eyes boring into Aloysius’. “Patrick was the one who killed his brother and he pinned it on Amos.” He only has Clayton's word, but Matthew's trust, his _faith_, in this is unshakable. 

“Why.... Why didn’t he say anything?” Aloysius' voice cracks oddly, like smoked out wood. "He let me-" 

Matthew presses his lips together. He's already said more than he intended. He won't go any further. 

Aloysius reads his abrupt stonewall. “Right. Fair enough, preacher.”

"You suspect this Patrick Harvey is responsible for whatever happened here?" Miriam asks, getting them back on track. 

"Yes. Clayton had concern that Patrick would come to finish it himself. We'd planned on speaking on it with the rest of you this very morning."

Aloysius runs a hand over his closely shorn head. "How could Patrick even know he was here, alive? I collected the bounty, Amos was declared dead."

“I don’t rightly know," Matthew says. “But it won't matter in the end when I find him." It says something about them that neither balk at his casual threat. 

"You have my help, Matthew." Aloysius' words are fervent and earnest. "Whatever I can do."

"Mine as well, and I'm sure Arabella will say the same." Miriam takes his hand, squeezes. 

"Thank you, my friends. Your trust in me means a lot." Resolve grips him, steadies him along with their support. "Shall we get started?" 

* * *

Matthew knows Aloysius is a tracker. It's his specialty. It must have served him well in his life before coming to Deadwood and it's certainly served them well after. 

He studies the room with the detailed considerations of a familiar lover. Slow and methodical. There's a focus to Aloysius, one he gets when he's putting things together, forming a scenario, putting together a trail. 

The blood on the wall holds his attention for a long time. “It’s not a gunshot wound. That’s good.” He changes his stance, mimes swiping and stabbing and Matthew can see the conclusion Aloysius has reached. 

“They sliced at ‘im,” Aly says. He chews at his mustache for a moment. “Arms, probably. He’d get them up quick to protect his face. How many layers was he wearin’?”

“One, maybe two.” Matthew remembers the shadowed line of Clayton’s collarbone under his thin shirt. The vulnerability of tender skin.

“They’d have cut him pretty well, then.” He crouches down to the pool. “They got him on the ground after that.” Aloysius touches the blood with his fingertips, rubs it between his pads. “Still fresh. That’s good, too.” He traces the nearby smear. “Dragged him out. Probably unconscious, since Miriam and I didn’t hear any commotion.” 

Had they been inside, waiting for him? Had Matthew sent him, like a lamb to slaughter, to a room full of wolves? Had Clayton been taken, been bound and gagged and hurt, mere moments after he’d left the church? Matthew trembles, caught halfway between fear and fury. 

Aloysius gets to his feet and moves forward, takes in the twisted sheets, the scraped grooves near the chair legs. Objects from on top of the bedside table are scattered across the floor. “You got his guns?” 

Matthew nods. “Yes, I picked them up from here.” He indicates a spot, nearly under the bed but not quite hidden. 

Aloysius’s eyes are dark and focused as they meet his own. “What’d the metal feel like? Warm?”

He shakes his head. “Cold. They hadn’t been fired, far as I could tell.” 

Aloysius nods, taking his word for it. “Sharpe fought ‘em, that’s clear enough. There’d been at least three or four of em.” He tilts his head at the mud and the footprints. “He didn’t have time to reach his guns. Surprised they left ‘em here.”

“We can assume they have plenty firepower of their own,” Miriam says, dress swishing a little as she looks in. She ducks back as Aloysius strides out of the room, eyes trained on the floor. The small drops of blood nearly blend into the dark wood, slipping into the wood grain. 

Miriam steps in and picks up the leather holster hung over the arm of the chair. She holds it out to Matthew. "If you're going to be carrying those, I'd rather they be safely secured." 

Matthew sheepishly buckles the belt, fumbling a little to slide the metal prong into a hole to fit his larger waist. He slips the weapons into their proper place, snug and fastened. 

The trail of blood leads them to the back entrance of the hotel and the alleyway beyond. It disappears into the dust of the thoroughfare. No matter how many times Aloysius walks it, he can't pick it back up. 

"We will just have to use other avenues," Miriam reassures, laying a placating hand on Aloysius's forearm who slowly settles from chomping at the bit. "What do we know?"

"Patrick Harvey was spotted around town," Matthew answers. With the initial panic absent, it's been filled by a relentless determination. His hands do not shake. 

"He's got unfinished business with Sharpe," Aloysius adds, "And a mean streak a mile wide."

Miriam taps her fingers against her mouth. "Who all saw him? Patrick Harvey?" 

"Clayton," Matthew answers. "Sol warned me he'd been sniffing around when I arrived so somebody else saw him, too."

"Then that's where we go next. See if Sol has anything of merit to add." She pivots with a whorl of her skirts and Matthew holds the door open for her as she heads back inside and strides towards the front entrance. 

* * *

Sol is idly spinning a thin, too-sharp letter opener in the wood of the counter top. He pushes himself upright at their approach. 

"Morning, lady, gents."

"Good morning, Mister Star. Might you be able to answer a few questions for me?" 

He leans back down, relaxing into something of a lean. "For you, Missus Landisman, anything."

She smiles at him, warm, and just a tad flirtatious. "Why you old charmer, you." She tips a little bit closer, working her angles. “What time did you get here today?”

He looks a mite surprised at the inquiry, mustache twitching, but he still answers. “Nine in the morn, or thereabouts. Same as everyday since Farnum kicked the bucket. Got a new feller takin’ care of the evening shift.”

Matthew steps closer, aims his voice low. “Clayton left the church just after sunrise. Seven, or close to it.”

“Did he now?” Sol smirks, eyebrows raising. Matthew looks at him slow and dead. Sol’s mouth snaps shut, Adam's apple bobbing nervously. 

Aloysius sucks through his teeth. “So they have at least a two hour head start on us.”

Matthew’s fingers curl into fists. A lot could happen in two hours. Clayton might already be dead. Despair eats at him, a dark, gnawing thing. 

"Something happen to Mister Sharpe?" There's a note of real concern in Sol's voice. 

Aloysius nods. "It appears that Mister Sharpe has been taken elsewhere, less than willing."

Sol straightens. "Shit. I knew that Harvey fella was up to no good."

Miriam rests her fingers on Sol's wrist. "You were so kind as to try and warn Clayton of the possible danger. Was there anything else you heard or saw that might help us find him? Anything at all?" 

He shakes his head. "All my information I got second hand. It wouldn't do you any good. I'm sorry." His apology is genuine and that's the only thing that prevents Matthew from violence. 

"So we go to the source," Aloysius answers, calm. "Who gave you the information?" 

Sol shifts. "If it gets out that I'm telling folks about my pigeons, they won't be coming to me and bleatin'." 

"I understand, but it's a matter of most importance," Miriam urges. 

Something old and quiet, like the silence before the crack of gunpowder and metal, the lightning before the roll of thunder, comes over Matthew. Sol's gaze flickers over towards him nervously. 

"I won't tell you who told me, but," he licks his lips. "They said they overheard Harvey talking to Liam. Liam Caldwell. He’s a bum. Shouldn’t be too hard to find him."

Miriam leans forward and places a kiss to Sol's cheek. "Thank you, darling."

Cheeks a bit pink, he clears his throat. "Well, you didn't hear it from me."

"Gentleman,” Miriam says, turning to look back at them with a grin, “I do believe we have a lead." 

* * *

Aloysius puts the query out discreetly with murmured conversations in corners and back alleys. Miriam goes to fetch Arabella, citing her business skills. It's clear after a few inquiries about locating Mr. Liam Caldwell, that Matthew is only in the way. People are reluctant to talk in front of him, either because of the collar or because of the murderous aura that's settled around his as familiar as any leather duster. Both are equally disquieting, but especially so when they’re together. 

Miriam sits him down at the bar of the Gem and instructs Johnny to get him whatever he wants. But Matthew doesn't really have the taste for alcohol at the moment and only accepts the single shot Johnny insists on. Matthew curls his fingers around the glass, but does nothing further. 

He feels a bit useless. He doesn’t have Aloysius’ connections or Miriam’s persuasive nature or Arabella’s head for negotiation. His grip tightens.

“Those the gunslinger’s colts strapped to yer sides?” Johnny asks. 

Matthew gradually looks up and Johnny skitters back. “And if they are?” he asks. 

“No- no reason. Just curious s’all,” he says from behind the counter, too much to a dullwit to know better. 

“A dangerous quality.” Matthew drags the shot of whiskey closer and tosses it back. It burns down his throat, but it doesn't thaw the cold space taking up residence behind his sternum. He sets the glass down, hard.

Johnny stares at it. In a moment of rare canniness he looks up with clear, sea blue eyes. "You look like a man on a warpath, preacher." 

"I just might be." Matthew places his palms against the aged wood of the bar top. "Just might be.”

He nods in response, takes the glass and sets it behind the bar. “Godspeed, then, preacher. Drink’s on the house.”

Arabella appears his side, her gloved hand sliding into the crook of his elbow. She looks up at him, warm whiskey eyes meeting his with a wealth of understanding. She knows the determination to find a loved one. She knows the desperation they had when they lost Clayton the first time, a drive so strong they turned back the forces of death with it. 

"We've found Liam."

He doesn't ask how or where they found him. It doesn't matter. Instead, he nods and gets to his feet. 

War. 

The word rattles around in his head like the echo of mortar fire. When he closes his eyes he can practically see it, smell it. The heat of muzzle flash searing against his skin. The acrid smell of burning bodies. The sticky-slick spindrift of blood. The unnatural scream of horses and the thundering of hooves as loud as the pounding in his ears. 

Scripture echoes in his head. _'Blessed be the LORD my strength, which teacheth my hands to war...'_

He may not know networking or how to choose the right words at the proper time or the way to execute a proposition...but Matthew knows war.

And he's about to wage it. 

* * *

Arabella leads him to an alleyway. Miriam and Aloysius stand, blocking the escape points of the man sitting on a short stool that has seen better days, the wood moments from breaking. A barrel serves as a makeshift table and there's an equally sad looking chair on the other side. 

Sparing a brief nod to Aloysius and Miriam, they step aside for him. Clayton usually handles this sort of thing, has the ability to intimidate and coax, but Matthew's not a bad hand at it himself. He used to do quite a bit of it, back in the day. Lately, he's been content to let Mister Sharpe interrogate, Matthew doesn't like thinking about his days in the war. The things he did. 

None of that matters now. 

He's planning on committing quite a few deadly sins, if that's what it takes to get Clayton back. 

Matthew settles down in the chair on the other side of the barrel. It creaks dangerously underneath his weight. Clayton's revolvers rest heavily at his sides. He looks at the individual across from him. Liam is a wiry man. Dirty. Dirty from his ash blond hair to his raggedy-ass boots. His old, threadbare shirt is missing buttons at the collar, causing it to fall open and reveal dark bruising at his throat and chest. Deep grey-purple, only just starting to green at the edges. 

He meets Liam's eyes, smiles, even though it doesn't reach his eyes. 

"I'm Matthew Mason," he says, his voice coasting the edge between friendly and menacing. He's perfected the odd balance in dark rooms and empty forests on soldiers and scouts. Enemies. He asks a question to which he already knows the answer, testing. “What’s your name, son?” 

The man licks his cracked lips. “Liam.”

Matthew hums. Honesty up front was always a good sign. “Liam. Meaning strong willed, protector. You livin’ up to your name, Liam?” 

“I- I try to, sir. Fer my wife and kids.” Liam's hands fidget in his lap. One of them has been broken. The flesh is swollen. 

“I’ve been told that you were seen talking to Patrick Harvey and some of his friends." Matthew leans forward. The seat squeaks, high and short. “Is that true?”

Liam takes a look at Matthew's face and then glances at the rest of their group spread out behind him. His eyes flicker to the various weaponry they carry. 

“Yes, sir.”

Matthew nods. “I’d like you to give me their names."

With a goal supplied, Liam jerks his head in a quick affirmative. If it wasn't information Matthew needed, he'd almost be embarrassed by how quickly Liam is giving them up. This one is no soldier, that's for sure. 

“C-course. Patrick you already know. He had a few fellas with ‘em, didn’t catch them all.”

“As many as you can remember.” Matthew doesn't take notes, he knows the others will remember for him if he somehow happens to forget. He doesn't intend to forget. 

“Uh, there were two Thomases, one big, one small. Andy Jenkins. A John. A fella they called Splitfinger. That’s all I heard.”

Matthew considers that. Folds those names down into his mind. They were the names of dead men, they just didn't know it yet. He turns his attention back to Liam. “You told them where to find Mister Sharpe?”

He quavers. “Yes, sir.”

“What did you ask of them in payment?”

Liam's eyes go glassy with unshed tears. Fear, perhaps, or desperation. “Didn’t ask fer nothin’, they was offerin’ it. I can’t find work since I busted my leg, my boy keeps cryin’ cause he’s so hungry, you gotta understand-”

“How much?” Matthew cuts in. “How much were they offering?”

“F-fifty dollars.”

A king's ransom, in these parts. “Did they give it to you?”

He starts shaking. “No, sir. They- they laughed and then beat me.”

Matthew nods thoughtfully. “So you sold out Mister Sharpe for nothing.” He takes out his knife, idly throws it up in the air before catching it by the hilt in a bit of useless flash. He nods at the makeshift table between them. “Put your hand on the barrel.”

Liam shakes his head, trying to pull away as much as possible. It won't make a difference. Even if he gets loose, he won’t get very far before Mathew drags him back again. 

"Please," Liam pleads. "Please, I know I made a mistake. I know he is your friend, but have mercy Father, I beg of you."

Matthew feels cold all over. “Put your hand on the barrel, Liam.”

Eyes closed tight, he slowly extends his hand out. His fingers can't completely straighten, swollen as they are. Tears track down his face as he looks away. The blade finds the soft wood of the barrel top, less than an inch from skin. Liam whimpers. 

Matthew takes the bills out of his pocket. He counts them. Then he places them in a dirty hand with broken fingers and carefully nudges them to curl over the money. 

Liam blinks his eyes open, looks at the cash in his palm with terrified bewilderment. "W-what?" 

“Fifty dollars." Matthew keeps his voice firm, does not let any of his shepherdly gentleness slip in. 

"I don't understand," he says, voice raw. 

"I know you don't. Go buy some meat to feed your family, Liam.” Matthew tilts his head, lowering his brows. Fixes the man with a stare that has sent lesser men running. “You think on this next time strangers come to town, asking for information.”

Liam tightens his fingers over the bills, stands. “Yes, sir.” 

“Now git. I don’t want to see your face for a few days.”

“Wait.” He jitters at Matt’s hard gaze. “There- there were a few of ‘em that hung back in town.” Liam licks his lips. “They stayed behind to visit some calicos at the brothels. They might still be around.”

It seemed there was some mettle to the man after all. Matthew is pleasantly surprised. “You know which establishments they might have acquainted themselves with?”

“They was headed to the Bella Union. Two of em, a tall feller, dark headed, and a littler one with big sideburns they called Thomas. Sleek heeled.” 

"Thank you, Liam." Some of that softness sneaks in, despite himself. 

Liam nods. "I am sorry about your friend."

Matthew nods. "Thank you," he says quietly, after a moment, but Liam is already gone, vanished at the mouth of the alley. 

Miriam lays a hand on his shoulder. "You all right, sugar?" 

"Yes." Matthew stands. 

Aloysius shakes his head. "Swore for a second you was gonna take his hand clean off."

"No." Matthew stares at the distant space where he lost sight of Liam. He has half a mind to be insulted by Aloysius’s estimation of his character, but lets the indignation slip away. "War is no place for civilians."

* * *

They head right to the Bella Union. There is no time to waste. If the men spent the night, they might already be on their way out this morning, if they didn't decide to have one last morning fuck before they went. Matthew doesn’t think he’s ever rested his hopes so thoroughly on the ladies of the Bella’s ability to wear a man out or a man’s desire to indulge in the pursuits of the flesh one last time before hitting the road. 

The saloon is mostly empty at this time of day, though there’s a few patrons milling about. Some are eating a late breakfast, others too enamored with the ladies of the house or with the bottles on the shelf to be anywhere else. 

Miriam steps forward and snags one of the girls serving. “Darlin’, would you be so kind as to fetch Miss Joanie for us?” She glances over at Matthew. “As quick as you can. It’s a matter of some urgency.”

She looks a little startled but nods. “Sure thing, Miss Miriam.”

Miriam smiles. “Thank you.” 

“Course,” she replies and sets her things down. “I’ll get her in a jiffy.” They watch her head upstairs and into the largest room. 

“Maybe we out to pick up some extra firepower ourselves while we’re here,” Aloysius muses. “Anyone seen Tulliver around?”

“Probably in the back, if yer lookin’,” the bartender speaks up. 

“Thank ya kindly,” Aly replies, tipping his hat. 

Joanie descends the stairs as regal as any queen and twice as dangerous. “Good morning. I didn’t expect business calls so early.” She’s is a hard woman to read, but she softens slightly at the sight of them. “What can I help you with?” 

Miriam takes the lead again. “Mister Sharpe has been taken by some men of disrepute. We were told some of their group made might have their way here to spend some time with the girls.”

She frowns. “You’re sure about that? My girls?”

Matthew steps forward. It’s a hard line to walk, keeping his voice as imploring as he can even while rage roils in his stomach. “They took him from his room at the Bullock and they mean to kill him. We don’t have much time.”

Joanie’s eyes harden. “What’d they look like?” 

“Two men, one dark haired. A shorter one with sideburns wearing no spurs.” _Thomas_, he thinks. The name of a soon to be dead man. 

Her mouth thins. “Come with me.”

She leads them upstairs and down a short hallway. “The first one is here,” she says, gesturing towards the door. “I’ll trust you can remove him without harm coming to my girls or holes being shot into my walls?” 

“I surely can,” Matthew promises. 

Matthew bursts into the room like a storm. The girl on the bed screams, but he pays her no mind as he takes stock of her and the man on top of her, already scrambling free and to his feet. The glint of metal draws Matthew’s eye and he grabs the gun from the table before his opponent can snatch it up himself. Matthew brings the gun back and swings, cold-cocking him with the handle of it. It makes the man spin from the force of it and hit the floor like a sack of bricks. Matthew looks up at the girl, Whitney, he thinks, and nods. She’s staring at him, wide eyed and shocked. 

“Sorry for the interruption, ma’am.” He loots through all of the man's pockets and tosses her a wad of bills for her trouble. Then he grips his quarry by the arm and hauls him bodily from the room. The loose belt buckle jangles against the hardwood floor. He tosses him at the rest of their group’s feet. They all stare back at him. “The other?” he asks. Joanie merely points at a room. 

This man, Thomas, has had enough time to dress. He’s by the door with gun in hand when Matthew comes through. He doesn’t get the chance to fire as Matthew throws himself forward and takes the man off of his feet. They fall in a tangle of limbs. His elbow bangs into the hardwood. There's a knee in his gut. 

The gun clatters to the ground. Matthew manages to see that Katy has picked it up, but is keeping it pointed down and away. 

He doesn’t have time to worry about it beyond that as he grapples. He has the brute advantage of weight and size and strength, but the little guy is scrappy. There’s fingers in Matthew’s face, trying to get at his eyes, so Matthew pulls an arm back for a blow. It connects and he feels the man’s nose break under his knuckles. Thomas howls with pain, but it only provokes him to struggle harder. Nails catch and scrape at Matthew's brow and cheek. 

“Fuckin’ _quit_ it!” Matthew snarls, punching him again and again until Thomas decides his hands would be better served protecting his face. Only until he’s satisfied with the level of blood and the stupefied look on Thomas' rearranged features, does Matthew get to his feet. 

“Jesus Christ, preacher,” Katy murmurs, looking down at the mess of the man’s face.

“Apologies, Miss Katy.” He takes a moment to catch his breath, to let the sting in his knuckles fade.

“No reason to be sorry, he was a shit lay.” She sets the gun aside. “Saved me from havin’ to stroke his ego, amongst other things.”

Matthew secures a grip around one of Thomas' legs, just above a boot with no spurs. He unceremoniously drags him out and throws him on top of his friend. Someone cries out in pain.

“Matthew, honey, your face,” Miriam says, something tight and worried around her eyes. 

Matthew wipes his sleeve against his skin, isn’t surprised when the material comes away streaked with red. “Little bastard clawed like a feral cat,” he growls. He kicks him for good measure, taking some satisfaction in the resultant groan.

Katy peeks her head out, unfazed by the beating that had taken place in front of her, only mild curiosity on her face. “What the hell they’d done to piss the preacher off?”

“Mister Sharpe’s been kidnapped,” Joanie answers her. 

Katy blinks. “That’d explain it.”

Matthew is still breathing hard, but he keeps his voice as cordial as possible. “I have some questions for these men. Would you have a spare room by chance? Where we wouldn’t be bothered?” 

Joanie nods, mouth pursed. “I’ve got just the place.”


	4. it pockets prayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not a new chapter! Just splitting the previous one in two (sorry y'all)  
good news is the ACTUAL next chapter is almost done! gonna shoot for friday, so stay tuned.

Joanie sets out a lantern for them. “It’s an extra ice room, we only get use out of it in the winter when we fill up the other one. Otherwise it’s storage. The walls are lined, so no one will hear a thing. You just throw the trash out into the back alley when you’re done, dears.”

Matthew tosses the men on the ground, a plume of sawdust puffs out. "Thank you, Miss Stubbs."

She merely pats his shoulder. "Best of luck to you, Father. I hope you get what you need." There's no doubt as to what she refers.

"I will," he swears, low and unwavering. 

She kisses his cheek and leaves them. 

"Bind his hands. Behind his back." Matthew tosses rope to Aloysius who sets to the work without comment. Matthew ties up the other, Thomas. Then he sets him upright, even at the man sways in his struggle to regain full consciousness. Aly sets the other one up next to him. 

Matthew waits until their both cognizant and subtly testing the strength of their ties even as they realize they're surrounded. Still, Matthew admires their tenacity. 

He settles in a chair in front of them, forcing them to look up at him a bit as they kneel on the ground.

"Where did they take him?" he asks the first. "Amos Kinsley. Where did they take him?" 

"I aint telling you shit, preacher." Thomas spits, thick and bloody. The spittle lands on Matthew’s chest and face. “What are you gonna do? Sermonize me?” 

Matthew stares at him, the emptiness inside him has stretched open deep and wide. Familiar, in its own way. An Old Testament wrath. He wipes his face clean on his sleeve. Then he places Clayton’s revolver against the man's chest, pulls back the hammer with a loud click. 

"Matthew," Miriam begins to speak, but does not stop him. 

“Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest.” He shoots. It's enormously loud in the confined space. The man blows over backwards and does not rise. 

He moves to the second one. “Now,” Matthew says. “Where did they take him?”

Features twist into an ugly snarl. "You think I can tell you anything? You're a goddamned fool. Harvey won't leave this unanswered, you gon be real sorry when he learns what you done." 

“I returned, and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift." The words are worn and familiar on Matthew's tongue. He presses the hot metal of the muzzle to the man’s knee. He waits, staring at the man's eyes. They've ringed white with fear. Matthew gives him a chance to start talking. 

Silence falls. Matthew squeezes the trigger. The man howls, shrill and thin. Matthew digs the end of the heated barrel into the mess left behind. Flesh sizzles. The result is an awful, choked moan. 

“Nor the battle to the strong.”

“Holy fuckin’ shit,” Aloysius breathes. 

He doesn't look over at them. He knows something empty sits behind his face. They've not seen it before, not really. He forgets how off putting this other side of him could be. Matthew settles back on his heels, wipes the blood flecked gun on the man’s own trousers. “I won’t ask again. Where did they take him?”

The man is weeping now, from pain or fear or both. “You ain’t got any clue, do you? You know what happens to me if I talk? It’ll make what they’re doing to your friend look like a fuckin’ cake walk.”

Matthew holsters the gun. “Tourniquet his leg,” he directs to Arabella.

“What? Why?” she questions, even as she begins to do what he commanded, taking the belt off the dead man and slipping it around the living one's thigh. 

“He’s told us that he knows something. Now it’s just a matter of persuading him to tell us." He takes out his knife. “And I’m about to be _real_ convincing.” 

Arabella tightens the leather around the man's upper leg until it creaks. Matthew snags a handful of hair and wrenches his head back when the man attempts to bite at her. Shakes him like a dog. She swiftly steps away once she's done. 

"Put him on the table." Matthew commands, letting go of the man's head. Aloysius moves to help, lifting the legs while Matthew takes the arms. They lay him on the table none too gently. 

“Gonna have your wicked way with me?” the man taunts. Matthew slices through the binding at his wrists, keeping a tight hold on his elbow, not that he'd be going far on a leg like that. 

“You oughta be grateful I don’t hang you up by your thumbs. We used to do that, you know, to soldiers who’d found themselves in need of some discipline. Were you ever a soldier? You look about the right age for it.”

“Fuck you,” he sneers. 

Matthew nods, and begins securing him down, tying each limb down by the corner of the table. When he gets to his feet the man tries to fight, useless as it is, kicking out at him. Matthew dodges back and then smacks a palm against the grisly wound of his knee. The man shouts, tries to pull away, but Matthew’s already looping rope around his ankle and tightening it down.

“Don’t be stupid, son. You do that again and I’ll make you regret it.”

He makes a sound, caught halfway between a whine and a laugh. Matthew’s tempted to tweak the knee a little more, but these things shouldn't be rushed. He lets the brief flare of indignation pass and continues talking. Matthew lets the silence stretch out for a moment, takes a slow, easy breath. He glances over his shoulder at Miriam and Arabella. “You ladies might want to wait upstairs. This could take awhile.”

Arabella shakes her head even as she holds on to Miriam tightly. “No.”

“You don’t have to stay for this,” Matthew cautions. It’s different like this—he knows. Shooting someone in the heat of battle or in the middle of firefight is quick. A snap of movement, a choice made in the split of a second. Not like this. Not slow and drawn out. The cold choice of methodical infliction of harm. 

But this man and his will is what stands between Matthew and finding Clayton. So he will do what he must. He’s committed worse sins for lesser purposes. 

“Yes,” Miriam says, her voice firm, her dark eyes soft and pained. “We do.”

“Go ahead, Reverend,” Aloysius says with a nod. 

Matthew begins to roll up his sleeves. He doesn't want to get blood on them. “Given the accent and the association you’ve maintained with Patrick Harvey, I’m going to assume you’re from Texas.” He keeps his voice light and friendly, a sort of joviality that contrasts sharply with the setting. "You boys didn’t see a lot of action at home.”

“You fight in the war, preacher?” he asks between gritted teeth. 

“I surely did. Not sure I ever stopped, by my reckoning. I laid my foundation there. I made myself in it.” Matthew finishes the knot and stands. “War came right up to my front door and I let it in.”

He wheezes out a laugh. “I knew some men like you. Soldier’s lookin’ like any other on the outside, but nothin’ more than an animal on the inside. You get off on the thrill of it, on the muck and filth of battle, on the screamin’ and the shootin’. You might dress up like a bible thumper, but you ain’t anythin’ but a beast.”

"A beast? I've seen a man turn into a beast, his flesh pull free as he changes into an animal creature. It's like something out of a nightmare." Matthew pauses, remembering. "The sight of it burnt into your brain."

The man tugs at his ropes. "The hell you talking 'bout?" 

"It has different names. Skin-walker, werewolf, windego. You don't really care what it's called when you're facing one."

"Your fairy tales don't scare me, priest." But there's a thread of something uncertain in his voice. There's been more sightings of the strange and unnatural in more places than Deadwood, even if it seems of particular note in these parts. 

"I wouldn't have believed it either. Belief don't matter much when you witness a man ripped open by claws like butter, innards spilling out onto the floor while he's still screaming." Matthew rests a hand on the man's belly, mimes claws with soft, human finger tips. The muscles quiver under his touch. "The screaming is what stays with me, you know. Even after all this time."

There was nothing like it, the near inhuman shriek of people torn open, being eaten alive. Matthew won't ever forget it. 

"How poetic." The man's hand suddenly snaps out, fumbling for the revolvers at Matthew's waist. He dodges back and smacks the grasping hand away even as it desperately tries to reach. "Goddamn it!" the man growls, straining. 

Even with one limb somehow free, there's little the man can do. It's easy for Matthew to grab the wrist and press it to the table. He takes his knife out and stabs it through the man's hand, pinning it to the table. He hollers before cutting the sound off and clenching his teeth. Tears track down his cheeks, ignored. 

"I told you that you'd regret it if you tried it again. Now am I going to have to nail you down to the table or are you going to behave yourself?" Matthew asks. 

"You fucker, you absolute piece of shit-" He attempts to tug at his hand free, but stops shortly after trying, blood welling up and dripping down his hand, pooling under his palm. 

Matthew sighs. "I wasn't even finished with my story," he says mournfully.

"Quit your tall tales and just get on with it," he says, voice grating. "If you're going to torture me, just do it. What's the fucking point, you bastard?"

"The point, son, is that I want you to know that I have seen beasts unlike you can imagine. I'm telling you this so that when I say I am a monster, you will believe me."

Thus Matthew begins his interrogation in earnest. Pain, judiciously and carefully applied, little by little. Slowly, he stretches the man’s limbs, tightening and pulling the ropes binding him. It takes longer than he'd like—what he’d do for a wagon wheel right now—but these things couldn’t be forced. That's how you got bad information by people desperate enough to say anything in order to get you to stop. 

It's a few hours in when the man finally starts to crack. An impressive endurance. 

“Why don’t you tell me your name? Get to know each other better.” Matthew digs his fingers into the man's bullet wound. Shattered cartilage and bone shift. He wonders if he could manage to get his fingers all the way through his knee. 

“Russell. It’s Russell Slatton, you fucker, please-”

Matthew removes his fingers, uses them to stroke Russell's face instead, pushing back sweaty hair. He leaves behind sticky streaks of blood. "There you go, that wasn't so hard was it? You keep telling me what I need to know and I promise I won't touch your knee again, all right?" 

"Okay, okay. Goddammit."

"How did Patrick know where to find Amos?" 

Russell shudders on the table, partially from shock. "He got word that the bounty been filled, that Amos was worm food somewhere up north. But he'd always wanted to do it hisself, wanted to be the one to make Kinsley dance two feet above the ground. He's got friends in low places."

Matthew rests his hand on the hilt of the knife. "That doesn't answer my question, Russell."

"He made a deal with the lady. She was the one who found him, said it wouldn't have worked if Amos wadn't still breathin'. Riled Pat up somethin' fierce. We shipped out the next day."

"The lady?" Something about that catches at him like a burr. 

"She knows things, does things, for a price. I ain't never seen her. Patrick knows about 'er, not me."

"All right." Matthew lets it go. Mysterious ladies or not, he's got more important questions to ask. "Where is Patrick now?" 

"They're gonna head back to camp. About fifty miles southeast of here, next to a lake."

"Which lake?"

"I don't fuckin' _know_, I ain't from here, I just came along and do what I'm told. We was supposed to meet up with them tonight and watch the hangin' in the mornin’. Give Pat plenty of time to have fun with your boy beforehand."

Matthew twists the knife a little. Russell doesn’t quite scream. He keeps his lips sealed tight, trapping the sound, even as his back arches with agony. He falls back flat, sweating and shaking.

“I must admire your tenacity, Mister Slatton. Now, how many men does Patrick Harvey have in his company?”

“It won’t matter how many men he’s got,” Russell wheezes. “You won't win. Can't. Not when he's got the Lady's favor.” 

Matthew hears the capital this time, the implied title. A sly mouth and the skittering slide of too many legs. He shakes his head, clearing it. “How many men, Russell?” he asks, cutting though the odd sensation. He leans his weight on the knife, slicing deeper. 

“A score and some left over. Half- Half of us came into town with him, the rest stayed behind to keep camp.”

Matthew considers. “We’ll have the element of surprise to even out the odds.”

"It won't do you any good," the man says, teeth red with blood. "Trying to catch him, is like trying to catch smoke." Then he falls into laughter, crazed and unnerving. 

Aloysius steps up. “That’s enough.” 

Matthew nods and puts a bullet in Russell Slatton’s head. “We need to get some horses.” He puts the revolver back in its holster. “And maybe some extra ammunition.”

“I’ll get the horses,” Aloysius says, stepping away, something grim in the set of his mouth. He doesn’t look at the bodies on the floor.

“I suppose I’ll get the extra fire power, then,” Miriam says, with a nervous fluttering smile. She carefully gathers up her skirts and steps out of the room. Matthew begins untying the body from the table. 

“Why’d you shoot the first one?”

Matthew looks up at Arabella who watched the entire scene with quiet, dark eyes. 

“The way he grappled told me the kind of man he was. You could probably torture him enough to talk, but it would take too long and there’d be no guarantee what he told you would be true. We don’t have that kind of time. The chances of getting somewhere was better with the second and he’d know the stakes from the beginning.”

“Smart,” she says with a nod. 

“It got us what we needed.” 

They have a location, a summary of numbers, and a strange, foreboding warning. Some things were more useful than others. He hauls the body up onto his shoulder. Arabella opens the backdoor for him and he tosses Russell into the alley. He goes back for Thomas. Blood smears and drips as Matthew takes him by his boots and, with a quiet grunt of effort, throws the second body out. Arabella closes the door. 

He looks over the area. The loose sawdust has soaked up most of the blood into clumps. He searches around for a bit and manages to find a broom and begins sweeping it up while Arabella watches. "Did it frighten you?" he asks, curious at her near silent presence. 

"No." She swallows. "Found it mighty informative, is all.” She looks at the rope remains still tied to the table legs. “You learn how to do that in the army?”

“Some of it. You pick up some things as you go.” 

She opens the door once more and he pushes the last bit of evidence out into the back alley with a few expert sweeps. 

“There.” He looks around, satisfied that he’s cleaned up after himself sufficiently enough. He sets the broom aside and glances back to ensure Arabella is following him out. 

Joanie sits right outside the stairs, chair artfully tipped back, and glances up at them when they step out into the hall. She lets the chair fall forward, coming back to the ground. “You get what you needed?” Joanie asks him. 

Matthew puts his hands behind his back. They’re bloody and rough in no state to be seen. “I did. Thank you, Miss Stubbs.” 

She nods, decisive. “Good. Now, you go get Mister Sharpe and bring him back home.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he rumbles. "Thank you kindly for your help."

He and Arabella step through the saloon and out into the thoroughfare. The sun shines bright and high in the sky and people are hustling about. "Is there anything you need before we head out?" he asks her. "Supplies?" 

"Yes. I'd like to pack some first aid, we don't know what state Clayton will be in when we get to him." Her mouth thins. "And I ought to tell my husband I'll be gone for a few days."

"Shall I go with you?" Matthew angles towards her. She casts her eye on him, big, broad shouldered Matthew, looking like retribution itself with bloodied knuckles and the death of two men already on his hands before noon with more to come. She loops her arms through his. 

"I'd like that."

* * *

It's not too far of a walk to Arabella's house and they cross it with unusual haste, the more they linger, the less time Clayton has. Matthew's been to Arabella's house before, but never inside, so he's a little surprised when Arabella indicates to follow her in. 

Mister Whitlock is in a chair, a half empty bottle of whiskey beside him. He's studying a puzzle box with furrowed brows. The reaction is slow, like a man surfacing from underwater, but he looks over at him, the expression of puzzlement still present. 

"Arabella," he says with some confusion, "I didn't realize you'd- you'd be back so soon."

She smiles tightly. "Yes, well, there's been a change of plan. I might be gone a couple of days."

"Oh," he says, sitting up straighter. "Is...everything all right?" 

"It will be. I just need to grab a few things." She dips her head. "Gentlemen." She disappears upstairs. 

It's then that Mister Whitlock seems to notice him. "Reverend Mason," he says in that soft voice of his, getting to his feet. "Pleasure to see you again. Is Arabella helping you with something?" 

"Yes," he answers. "I apologize for the short notice, I'm afraid some wolves made off with one of my sheep." He catches Eugene Whitlock glancing down at his hands. They're bloody and dusted with gunpowder. Matthew slides them into his pockets. "Metaphorically."

Eugene licks his lips nervously. "Metaphorically. Of course. And Arabella will be accompanying you?" 

"She will." Matthew settles his weight. "Along with some others."

Matthew doesn't have the clearest understanding of the arrangement Arabella and Eugene have, only that she's unhappy here. His limited interactions with the man in front of him were mainly at Cynthia's funeral and brief meetings in the rare instances Mister Whitlock ventures outside. Over all, he seemed an odd, soft headed sort of fellow. 

"That won't be a problem, will it?" Matthew asks. The question is half genuine, half intimidation. 

Eugene fidgets. "No, no, of course not. Holy work is very important to Arabella. I'd not get between her and her services to God." 

"Thank you kindly, Mister Whitlock."

"Even so," Eugene says, voice abruptly firm, getting to his feet. 

He walks over to a nearby chest of drawers and does come thing complicated with a knob until a hidden compartment pops open. Matthew blinks, surprised. Eugene pulls out a small wooden box, about as long as pistol, but not deep enough to hold one. He walks over and hands it to Matthew. 

"You might want to take this with you. After all, some wolves have more bite than others. Never-never hurts to be prepared." 

Matthew flips open the lid. Three vials of colorless liquid rest inside, separated out and padded to prevent jostling. "This is nitroglycerin." The words come slowly to Matthew. 

"Ah, yes. Yes, it is. Made it myself. Should be-" he clears his throat awkwardly. His uncalloused fingers twitch. "Should be quite spectacular. Be careful with it."

Matthew swallows a bit nervously but closes the box. "I will. Thank you." 

Arabella comes back down the stairs, a doctor's bag in one hand and a few books in the other. She glances between the two of them warily. "Everything all right here?" 

"Yes," Matthew carefully tucks the box away. "We just had an enlightening discussion about the various avenues of sacred service."

She eyes them suspiciously. "Sure. Well, we should be going." She turns to her husband, plasters on a wide smile. "Goodbye, Mister Whitlock."

He leans forward to press a kiss to her cheek before she can react, encumbered by her supplies. "Goodbye, Arabella. Safe travels." His gaze is sad as he steps away. 

Arabella nods stiffly and exits without looking back. 

Matthew watches him return to his seat and pick up the puzzle box once more. Perhaps Eugene Whitlock wasn't as soft headed as he seemed. 

"I'd like to make a quick stop at the church, I'd you don't mind," Matthew says when he catches up with Arabella. He knows Miriam is picking up some things for them, but he'd feel a lot more secure with his own revolver tucked at his back and neither she nor Aloysius have returned from their own errands yet. 

"I don't mind at all, Reverend. Perhaps you can answer something for me on the way." She slips her hand into the crook of his elbow. 

Matthew tenses a little. "Perhaps."

She gently pats his arm. "If you don't want to talk about it, I understand, but you piqued my curiosity." 

"Oh?" 

"The story you told the man on the table, the one about the beasts...what happened? There's stories in some of my books about similar things, but I've never met anyone with a first hand account."

"Oh. I see." That wasn't what he had expected. "It was when I was stationed at Fort Collins in Colorado, not that you can call it much of a fort. Didn't even have walls. We were attacked in the dead of the night by Dog Soldiers. I assume as part of the retaliation for the Massacre of Sand Creek."

"Dog Soldiers?" She looks up at him with sharp, interested eyes. 

"A band of Cheyenne warriors. Not all Dog Soldiers can do...the things I saw that night, but enough of them can. They fell upon us like a storm, like lambs to slaughter."

"How terrible." Her grip squeezes sympathetically. 

Matthew shakes his head. "Terrible yes, but all war is terrible. The Cheyenne weren't there when the attack at Sand Creek happened. Perhaps they blamed themselves for it. Perhaps they blamed us for it. Regardless, they sought to even the scales. Not sure I can say we didn't deserve it."

"And you escaped?" 

"Barely." He doesn't touch the old scars knitted in his side out of habit, but it's a near thing. He can still remember the splitting pain of claws against his ribs, teeth digging into the meat of his shoulder, hot breath and spittle foaming against his rent skin. "I don't have any shame to say I ran. I killed a man to buy myself some time to get clear."

He can remember the weight of the gun in his hand, picked up from a fallen soldier. He'd run to the stables, bleeding profusely, sweat and blood in his eyes and in his mouth. An officer had been trying to escape, same as him, already had a horse bridled. The baying and high pitched cries had grown louder behind him. 

“That's why you've got a bounty on your head," Arabella murmurs. 

He nods. “I wish that I could tell you I feel bad about it, but I don’t.” He'd shot the officer in the leg, crippling him, left him to the Dogs, and taken the horse. 

Arabella's mouth forms into a hard line, but her grip on him remains warm and tight. "Sometimes we do the things we have to, to survive."

The reach the church in silence. Matthew leaves Arabella sitting in the pew as he gathers what he needs. His bag of gear is almost always packed these days, so he tosses in a change of clothes and his shotgun, settling his own revolver at the small of his back. 

Arabella is praying when he thunders down the stairs. He pauses, wrong footed. "My apologies, Miss Whitlock." 

She smiles and gets to her feet. "No apologies necessary, Reverend, I'm finished. Shall we?" 

His worry for Clayton nips at his heels, present and demanding. "Yes."

* * *

Aly’s waiting for them when they meet in the thoroughfare. “Got the fastest horses money can buy,” he tells them as he pats the flank of a roan mare, the other steeds standing behind him. 

Miriam comes out with a bulky haversack over her shoulder. She glances around. “I’d feel more comfortable distributing these outside of town if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, Miss Miriam,” Matthew defers. He gives Arabella a hand up onto her horse, a pretty little paint. She settles into the saddle. Aly helps Miriam and they both mount their own horses. Matthew angles them toward the direction they need. 

"Let's go."

Matthew clicks his teeth and prompts his horse into motion, the others following behind. They start at an easy pace until they get past the town and then Matthew pushes the horses into a fast, unrelenting pace.

They ride hard for as long as they can. Matthew curls over the horse, syncs up their breathing, the rocking rhythm of its body. For hours there is nothing but the pounding of hooves and the pounding of his heart. Sweat foams on the neck of his horse, even as he urges it onward. 

Aloysius draws even with him and shouts. "There's a clearing ahead! I think we should stop for a bit!" 

Matthew wants to push it further, but he knows that it's no use. The horses won't be any good if they don't allow them to rest. The sun has begun to tip towards the horizon and the sky is pinpricked with stars. He nods and steers toward the clearing, allowing his horse to slow down from the gallop he'd been pressing. 

Matthew slides off his horse, pats its neck. The creature is laboring a bit, nostrils flaring with each breath. "You did good," he soothes. "You did good."

At this rate, they'll make it to Horse Thief Lake in the middle of the night or early morning. Matthew tries to make himself content with that as he picket ties the horses. 

"It's just for a moment," Aloysius promises. "Just to rest so we're fresh when we reach Clayton."

"I understand," Matthew replies, a bit sharp. Instant recrimination curls in his chest. He winches. "Sorry."

Aloysius merely continues to rub down the mare. "Why don't you take a break, Reverend? I got it from here."

Matthew takes the opening with what grace he can muster and slinks away. He finds a tree and sits, leaning his back to it. The girls set up camp and Aloysius hands out some rations, apples and bread and jerky, before taking the horses down to the creek for a drink. 

He eats a little, as much as he can stomach, knowing Clayton is so close and yet still so far. The back of his head hits the bark of the tree. He still has blood on his hands, though most of it has flaked off, red-brown stain caught in the grooves of his knuckles, under his fingernails. 

Not much to be done about it now. The sun dips past the line of the earth and night descends around them. Insects begin to chirp and call around them. Matthew let's the sound of his sooth his churning nerves. 

He closes his eyes. Just for a minute. Just long enough to rest the horses before they can continue to ride. He feels his breathing deepen, his limbs grow heavy. He slips into sleep, but sleep is not there to meet him. 

Black swirls at his feet, all around him. He's standing, yet he cannot move, as if some invisible force has tied him down. Panic thrums in his veins. He thrashes uselessly, but he's stuck fast, pinned in place.

A low, throaty chuckle near his ear makes his skin crawl. Hot breath puffs against the side of his face. He cannot turn his head to see. The old wounds on his ribs pull tight as his breathing increases, heaving.

"_Well_," says the voice, smooth and prickly all at once. Female, or close to it. Goosebumps break out across his skin, and still, Matthew cannot move. A high pitched noise pierces his ears, ringing. "_What do we have here?"_ she asks, voice echoing and whispering back on itself. "_A man devoured by sorrow." _

Something long and thin and pointy lifts his chin, forcing his gaze up. The touch stings at his skin. He catches sight of a woman. Her hair is the same swirling shadows that surround him, obscuring her face. All that is visible are full, painted lips that curl at the edges into a smirk. The point of contact beneath his chin slides up the side of his face like a line of fire and into his hair. Nails rake against his scalp, cradle the back of his skull. 

_"I can help you with that,"_ she promises, voice low and sensual._ "No games, no tricks."_

"And who are you to make such a generous offer?" he asks. Every place she's touched feels hot and painfully swollen. Matthew struggles against invisible bonds but it's like fighting against steel. 

_"Why, how rude of me not to introduce myself." _She giggles and it feels like the skittering of a thousand tiny creatures. _"I am the Lady."_


	5. or holds rage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We will get Clayton back,” Matthew says, _swears_, to a power he can never understand; to the earth beneath his feet, to the rolling storm over his head. “We will find every last son of a bitch that thinks they can steal someone from us and we will put them in the ground. Amen.” 
> 
> "Amen," they answer. 
> 
> Thunder cracks above them.

There's a fission of something like panic in the abrupt forming and swirling of shadow. The Lady's touch tightens. Matthew gasps, his skin throbbing with a bone deep pain. A familiar voice echoes through the dark. A second presence slithers into the strange plane, narrow and tall and massive behind Matthew, one that was felt more than seen. The faceless, humanoid silhouette begins to form. For once, Matthew feels nothing but relieved to see it. 

_"These are my players,"_ the Dealer says, looming in this hollow space, and there's something furious there behind the empty face, an old, proprietary rage. _"They sit at **my** table." _

The invisible bonds holding him in place slacken. Vanish. It’s replaced by a tepid, dry touch wrapping gently around his wrists and the smooth slide of scales like waxed paper. It soothes the aching burn the Lady left behind. 

_"They are mine,"_ the Dealer rasps, revealing teeth. Matthew knows the smile it wears. Matthew has seen it. Matthew has worn it. There is no joy in it, only bristling threat. _"And their wagers are with me."_

The Lady dips down to his ear, painted mouth still pulled into a smug, knowing smirk. Whatever lapse in her confidence the Dealer's appearance caused, it’s only momentary. 

_“You poor thing,”_ she says to him, not nearly as endearing as Miriam’s charm. There is no honey richness, only a cloying sweetness. Blood bursts in Matthew’s mouth. _“That’s the thing about playing cards, you know,”_ she croons, _“the house always wins.” _

The Dealer’s mouth doesn’t move but there’s a low hiss that reverberates deep, like the warning of a rattlesnake, the rumble of the earth shifting. 

_“Why don’t you step into my parlor?”_ the Lady whispers into the shell of his ear. Matthew feels a touch like fingers, but too long and prickly, drift along the hair at the nape of his neck. _“I’m sure you and I can come to an arrangement. No wagers. You tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.” _

_"Nothing in life is free."_ The Dealer's words reach him, sharp and biting. 

Matthew knows the Lady is telling the truth, but an artfully spun web of them is as dangerous as any lie. There’s a reason why it sounds too good to be true. 

"There's always a price." The phrase forms on Matthew's lips, trips from his mouth before he can retract it. 

The Lady hums, an amused sound, like a perfectly plucked chord. _"But, of course. How else will you understand the value?"_ she asks. Her touch slides into his hair like a lover would, familiar and confident. But her touch is caustic and stinging, like a brand pressing against his flesh. The Dealer’s protective coil around his wrist winds tighter with the susurrus of interlocking scutes. 

The Dealer might play his games, but there was as much a chance at losing as winning, as far as Matthew could tell. And so far luck had been good to him, granting him favorable hands. He would have no such advantage with the Lady, who could name her price.

“I thank you kindly for the invitation, my Lady,” he says. 

He goes to tip his head in polite acknowledgement—not going out of his way to be offensive could only help his survival rates—but cannot move in her hold. A low thrum of panic takes residence on his belly. His arms are held by the large, unseen presence behind him. 

He doesn’t fully understand what games are being played between these two entities, but he has a feeling that he’s been caught in a dangerous gambit. He takes a risk and picks a side. “However, I’m afraid I have a previous engagement that I cannot be late for. I cannot accept.” 

He can see the Dealer's grin from the corner of his eye. The Lady's lips twist into a snarl. 

_“You’ll regret this. Only a fool trusts a snake.”_

She’s gone. The tight hold on his arms fades, slipping away. Matthew does not look over to see what exactly had a hold on him and takes a moment before he turns to fully look at the facsimile of the Dealer in front of him. 

He speaks to it, “I fear I just made this task far more treacherous than it already was.”

The Dealer tilts his head in acknowledgement of the point._ “Be ye therefore as cunning as serpents and innocent as doves.”_

Matthew grins at the familiar words, a match to the Dealer's own expression stretching over his own teeth. A hand reaches out, startlingly human, and touches his head.

Matthew bolts awake. 

* * *

It’s still dark out when he sits up. His wrists sting as if he’d rubbed them raw against ropes. Their camp is quiet and still, the small fire burned to embers. Aloysius and Arabella are talking quietly nearby. 

“How long have I been out?” he asks, voice rough.

“Just a few hours,” Arabella answers. Longer than they should have let him sleep. 

Matthew presses his lips tightly together but doesn’t argue. There’s no point in it now. 

“Near as I can tell, we’re an hour or so’s ride from Horse Thief.” Aloysius begins sketching out the shape of the lake. “Most likely they are camped out on the shore, but I’ll scout ahead when we get there to make sure.”

“Defensible position.” Matthew's voice is low, studying the crude map. “We could come at them from either side, split their focus.” 

"A two prong assault?" Aloysius folds his arms thoughtfully. "One part distraction, one part retrieval?" 

"Seems our best bet. I have a feeling they know we're coming." Matthew looks down at his hands. Red, blistered skin circles his wrists, the Lady's warning still ringing in his head. 

Arabella's eyes sharpen. "What makes you say that?" 

He meets her gaze. "Would you believe me if I said...because of a dream?" 

"The way our lives have been going?" Aloysius raises his eyebrows. "Hell yeah, I would." 

“I- I think they have someone, _something_, on their side, same as we do. Something like the Dealer.” 

Aloysius lets out a string of curses blue enough to wake Miriam. “What’s going on?” she asks, hand falling to her rifle.

“As if it ain’t bad enough,” Aloysius remarks, “now we fightin’ godlike creatures? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“I don’t believe we’re facing her directly, but I wouldn’t be surprised if these bandits can do...similar things to what we can.” As if summoned, the eerie blue light of power flickers and thrums under his skin, painting it translucent.

“If they can match us power for power, then we will just have to outsmart them,” Arabella replies, mouth thinning.

“Well, I got one power they might not be able to match.” He pulls out the box of nitro and opens it. Three vials rest inside, nestled in foam. 

“Where the hell did you get that, Matty?” Miriam breathes, scooting closer. 

“A donation from a concerned friend.” He looks up at Arabella, trying to wordlessly impart the source. She studies the box carefully, hands clenching in her skirts. 

“That’s good workmanship,” Miriam says, her admiration obvious. "Look at that clarity."

“I wouldn’t know,” he replies. His interactions with nitro have been limited to what Miriam supplied them on their first adventure. “But I’m doubting those fellas on the lake are packing quite so much bang for their buck.” 

“Well, I think we found the catalyst of our distraction,” Arabella says, voice low. Matthew cannot hope to read it. 

"Seems so." 

"I'll be damned," Aloysius smacks his hat against his leg. "You can ride as far away from me as you like when carrying that shit, Reverend."

"Aloysius!" Miriam objects to his teasing. She pats Matthew. "You can ride by me, sugar."

Arabella gets to her feet. "Speaking of, we ought to be making tracks."

"Arabella is right." Matthew mounts his horse. “Let’s go.” 

They ride the rest of the way in silence. The sky begins to lighten with dawn, but instead of revealing blue sky, it stays grey, a thick formation of clouds spreading out above them. A light rain begins to fall. The ladies wrap their blankets around their shoulders, the brim of their hats pulled low. 

Matthew tilts his head to keep the runoff from his hat from dripping down his neck. His heavy leather duster will keep him warm and dry even in a heavy storm. Mud churns up under their mount's hooves. 

Aloysius calls a halt when they reach the canyon. “I’ll scout ahead from here." He dismounts smoothly and hands his reins to Matthew. “Shouldn’t be too long.”

“We will wait for you under those trees,” Matthew indicates. He doesn’t want to risk a fire, if he could even get one started in this rain, but at least there will be a little shelter. 

Matthew ties the horses to a branch and checks to make sure both Arabella and Miriam are all right. They’re a little cold, very wet, but both brimming with determination, hands and eyes steady as they wait for Aloysius’ return.

* * *

Branches rustle and Aloysius appears, legs thick with mud from the knees down. 

“They are on the shore, just south of here. Lots of cover for us both. Trees and rocks.” Lightning flashes in the distance. Aly grins, but there’s not much humor in it. “The rain will help hide the noise of movement, at least until we start blowing things up.” 

“Not much to be done about it,” Arabella pulls her blanket around her tighter. 

“No.” He looks over. “Miriam, you have experience with nitro.” 

“You know I do, baby.” Her humor is dampened by her shivering. 

“And I’ve got a pretty good aim and I know the terrain, so you and I will take the nitro and provide the distraction. Matthew and Arabella will retrieve Clayton. He’s got the strategy to deal with anyone defending the camp and she can assess Clayton’s condition. Once you got him, we meet back here.” Aloysius looks up at them, rain dripping from his hat, eyes serious. “If things get hairy or we’re not back yet in an hour, move on to Deadwood without us.” 

Matthew meets Arabella’s gaze. Her flinty hazel eyes hold his and she gives the smallest shake of her head. He nods. Neither of them plan on leaving anyone behind. 

“Perhaps a prayer, Reverend?” Miriam asks. 

In this moment does the war rattling in his chest and the holiness in his heart find harmony. In this, he has a purpose that fulfills both sides of himself. 

“Dear God in Heaven,” he intones, mind filled with the sound of rumbling earth and hands too quick to follow. “Give us the authority to trample underfoot spiders and scorpions. Give us the power to conquer our enemies. Let them fall way to fear and to doubt while we stand strong and unafraid. Let us retrieve what has been taken.” 

Matthew looks up at each of them. Arabella has her head bowed, the brim of her hat cutting her eyes from view, but the line of her mouth is hard. Miriam’s gaze rests in the middle distance, somewhere near the buttons of his shirt, her breath uneven but her hands are steady. Aloysius meets his eyes directly, an unwavering determination reflecting back at him as firm and as steady as bedrock.

“We will get Clayton back,” Matthew says, _swears_, to a power he can never understand; to the earth beneath his feet, to the rolling storm over his head. “We will find every last son of a bitch that thinks they can steal someone from us and we will put them in the ground. Amen.” 

"Amen," they answer. 

Thunder cracks above them.

* * *

Arabella and Matthew move off, hoping to circle around towards the camp on the shore unseen and avoid the influx of men that Aly and Miriam would attempt to draw. There's no such luck. 

They quite literally stumble into them, two men, dark clothes, almost invisible between the dark and the rain. For a moment the two groups of people stare at each other in confusion before the realization sets in. Enemies. There's little time to react. Both sides burst into motion. Matthew gets off a few shots, bullets whiz by his own head as the bandits return fire as everyone scrambles for cover. 

Rusty metal grows from the skin of one of them, grotesque and horrifying. Bullets ping harmlessly off the bizarre armor. Well, Matthew supposes that answers the question of whether or not they had the Lady’s support. 

Matthew gets Arabella's wrist and hauls her behind him while he takes refuge in a cluster of trees. He thinks he clipped one, but the bulletproof fellow could prove to be a problem. He bares his teeth and tries to think. He can't risk getting close enough to deal with it personally. The heat of flame prickles at his palms. 

Arabella chants softly under her breath. Matthew glances back at her. There's something cold and burning in her, eyes wild. His skin breaks out into goosebumps. A terrified yell snaps his attention back to their enemies. The armored man has stumbled away from cover, eyes rolling with terror. He claws at himself, gasping, and then abruptly stiffens and falls to the ground. Dead. 

"What in tarnation," Matthew breathes. 

Arabella exhales shakily. "Sudden cardiac arrest onset by adrenaline related stress." Then she grins. "Scared him to death."

"Holy hell, Bells."

The other man yells for help and throws a hand out. The wind begins to pick up, unnaturally quick, leaves rushing and branches snapping. Rain is whipped into a torrent, stinging painfully at Matthew’s face. He can’t see. The woods around him reduced to dark, indistinct shapes in the maelstrom. 

They need to move. He gets behind her, starts urging her forward. The ground seems to slick and shift underneath him. He stumbles, catches himself on the rough bark of a tree. Looking up, he squints into the gray. Arabella is nowhere to be seen, but he can't see more than a few feet in front of his face anyhow. It's too risky to call out for her. It would give his position away and potentially hers. He struggles onward in the direction he thinks she went.

Bullets spray. Matthew hits the ground. Arabella screams, high and ragged to his left. It's pure instinct, twisting towards her, feet slipping in the muck. He brings the revolver up, aims, and fires in a single breath. A man's head blows back. The body tumbles away and lands with a dull thud. Matthew's moving forward, gathering Bella up in his arms, clutching at her. 

"I'm all right," she says, "I'm all right." But the grip of her hand around his is slick. He can't tell if it's from blood or rain or mud. The aberrant wind slows and ceases. The rain falls to a natural, albeit still heavy, rate and the rush of wind gives way to the sound of battle. 

Footsteps in sucking mud pulls his attention. Matthew releases her to get another three shots off at moving shapes in between the trees. One finds a man's shoulder in a short spray of blood. One misses and the other hits, but the target doesn't go down, the air filled with cursing as the enemy ducks behind a tree. 

"Get to cover," he tells her. "Find Miriam and Aly if you can."

She looks at him, wet and scared and eyes alight with strange fire. "What about-" 

"I'll go on ahead, don't you worry about me."

"It's just a scratch, Matthew Mason, and if you think I'm letting you go on your own you have another thing coming."

He opens his mouth to argue. 

"No!” she snaps, “I love that fool man, too, and _goddammit_ if I let him get killed again. You ain't carrying on without me." 

Matthew blinks. "Yes, ma’am."

They proceed forward. Any hope of surprise has been lost, but they do their best to make their position hard to place. 

Matthew puts a hole in the man trying to find cover and Arabella silences the one bleeding from the shoulder. The third catches him off guard, launching bodily at him. It's a messy exchange of blows. Hands scramble for his throat, thin fingers trying to grip and clench. Wild eyes stare down at him, yellowed and bloodshot. 

There's a sickening crunch and the man is yanked sharply to one side when Arabella, standing above him like an angel, slams the end of a shotgun into the side of his combatant's head. The man rolls a few feet away and stays motionless. 

"Where'd you get that?" Matthew wheezes. There's sure to be some pretty purple bruises ringing his neck. 

"Picked it up off of one of 'em. Figured he ain't going to be using it." She offers him a hand up. He takes it and she helps him to his feet with a strong pull. 

"Thank you." He groans a little, but it seems that's the last of them, for a while. 

She hitches her water soaked skirt, spattered in mud. "Let's hope Aly and Miriam are having better luck than we are."

A loud, resounding explosion punctuates her statement. 

"Sure sounds like it." 

Arabella looks in the direction of the sound, a small smile fixing her pursed mouth. "You wanna tell me where you really got that?”

Matthew wheezes out a laugh. "You know, I think you oughta talk to Mister Whitlock about that."

* * *

Matthew and Arabella approach the campsite carefully after they make sure no one is coming after them. It's exactly as Aloysius described. 

There's three men there, one who must be Patrick Harvey. Older and uglier than the other two. Clayton is tied up near one side, by some crates of supplies and a tent. He's bound, hands and feet, and a dirty rag is stuffed in his mouth. 

The distant popping of gunfire sounds in the other direction. “You two," Patrick shouts at the men. "Go get those trouble makers and bring them back here!" 

"But," one starts. "I thought you wanted us to guard the prisoner?" 

"He ain't goin' nowhere," the other answers and kicks Clayton, who moans and slumps over bonelessly. 

Patrick vanishes in a roll of smoke. He coalesces fifteen feet away, right next to Clayton. 

"Holy shit," Matthew breathes. 

“Teleportation,” Arabella whispers next to him. 

Matthew doesn’t have much of an idea of what that word is, but he figures it means jumping from place to place. His grip on Clayton's revolvers tighten. "A gift from the Lady, no doubt."

Suddenly, it clicks in Matthew's mind. Clayton’s certainty of seeing Patrick Harvey only to be met with an empty, dusty alley abruptly makes sense. How long had Harvey been skulking about, following them, only to vanish into thin air? 

Something hardens in Matthew’s heart. Harvey had been deliberately spooking Clayton, hadn't he? Scaring him half to death before snatching him up and dragging him off. The bastard.

Patrick takes a handful of Clayton’s hair and drags him a few feet closer to the middle of the camp, furious. Clayton’s head is wrenched back. “We’re going to bring the rest of your little friends here and then we’re gonna kill em while you watch, you hear me, Kinsley?” Patrick shakes him. “And then, as you kneel in their blood, will I slit your throat myself.” 

Another eruption of gun fire followed by an explosion, closer this time, shakes the ground. Patrick abandons Clayton, leaving him to slump into the dirt. 

“I’m going to distract Harvey. You get to Clayton, you grab him and get clear. I don’t want to hear any arguments.” Matthew fixes his eyes on her, intent. "I'll be right behind you if I can."

She swallows and nods. “Yes, sir.” 

Matthew moves to the side of the camp away from Clayton and, once a safe distance away from Arabella, begins making as much noise as a man his size can, crashing through the trees. 

"Harvey!" he shouts. "Seems like your boys ain't as good of a shot as you thought they were."

A few shots whiz by him, splintering into tree bark. 

"And neither are you!" Matthew adds.

"Awful lotta fuss you've put up for one man, stranger!" Patrick Harvey calls out. "Would you still want him knowing he's some cocksuckin' Nancy?" Patrick laughs. "Or maybe it's your cock he's suckin'!" 

Fury fills Matthew to the brim. He darts between the trees, bullets flying from both sides. A line of fire draws across Matthew’s ribs. Patrick hurries behind an outcropping, dust spurting where Matthew’s lead hits rock. Matthew ducks behind a tree trunk, breathing hard. He grits his teeth, ribs aching. The hand he presses to his side comes away red. Shit. The fucker managed to hit him. Still, the gambit manages to move Patrick Harvey farther away from Clayton and Arabella.

The sound of boots scrambling on dirt reaches him. "Wait a minute, you're that preacher, ain't ya?" 

Matthew bites his lip, but doesn't answer. Counts the seconds. How long would it take for Arabella to get Clayton free and away? 

Patrick’s voice calls out again. "Saw the two of you getting all cozy in town, should'a known." Matthew glances around the tree. Arabella is crouching next to Clayton, frantically cutting through the ropes holding him. Patrick moves closer, thirty or so feet away. "Nothing to say now, bible thumper?" Patrick taunts. 

It's enough to refocus his attention back to the man. Matthew resists the urge to retort. Instead, he lines up his shot, ready, only to see smoke start to curl off of Patrick. 

"Well, if you ain't gonna show yourself, I'll just have to shoot you where it will hurt the most, won't I? Too bad you came all this way, preacher, but I suppose I might let you take his corpse back home with you."

Patrick disappears. 

No. 

Matthew looks over to the camp. 

Matthew hears the telltale crackle of Patrick Harvey reforming, smoke thickening into person-shape only a few feet away from them. No time for any of them to reach cover. No time to escape. 

Matthew throws himself forward. Maybe he can reach them. Maybe he can-

* * *

His vision goes dark. Around him, the sounds of battle become muffled and unnaturally slow. Matthew stands, weaponless, in front of the Dealer. The words seem to come from nowhere and everywhere. 

_"Care for a round?"_ the Dealer shuffles the deck. 

"Put me back, you son of a bitch," Matthew says, any sense of self preservation leaving him. "Put me back _right now_."

The cards pause, halting in mid-air. _"Do you not wish to draw?" _

Matthew can hear the double sound of fluttering cards and gunfire and the phantom spray of blood on his skin. 

Oh, Matthew wishes to draw, all right. He wants Harvey dead, blown to bits. He snarls. 

The Dealer, seemingly taking this for willingness, grins and deals out the cards. 

Matthew pulls up a chair that hadn't been there before. "What's the wager?"

_"A life hung in the balance."_

Matthew's mind fills with the image of Clayton, on his knees, face bloodied. It's real enough Matthew could almost reach out and touch him. Church bells ring in the distance. The taste of apples cold and slick on his tongue. 

"For Clayton Sharpe?" 

_“What would you give to have him?”_ the Dealer asks. 

An old question, one the Dealer has asked before. Matthew doesn't prevaricate this time. There is no wordplay now. “You know what I would give.” Matthew says, desperate but certain. “Anything. Everything. Please.”

The Dealer's head tilts. _"All in? Interesting play."_

It's enough. The game begins. The cards splay out before him, slick paper under his fingers. Matthew studies his hand, heart pounding. He slides one away. “I'd like to replace this one.” The Dealer draws him a new card. 

Sweat drips down his spine. Matthew exhales, slow and drawn. If he loses...Matthew can hardly bear to think about it. He's laid everything on the table. There's no telling what the Dealer, or the unknown presence that accompanies it, will do with him.

_It's worth it_, he thinks. It's worth it, for Clayton. For him to be safe, but more than that. For him to be free. Free of Harvey and the past that seemed to haunt his every step like a particularly persistent shadow. Free from the guilt and the shame that never should have been his in the first place. 

Matthew is willing to sacrifice for that. He's willing to kill for that, die for that. 

_Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. _

The Dealer waits, face as empty and as unreadable as ever. Time to pony up. They show their hands. The Dealer has two pairs; two jacks, two kings. Matthew lays out three of a kind, sevens. 

He wins. 

Victory and relief hit Matthew hard enough to make his head spin. 

_“He is yours.”_ The Dealer grins, inhumanly wide. Then his thoughts are flooded with the answer. A snuffed candle. A wisping trail of smoke. The sudden flash of flame as it reignites from the trail. 

Smoke can still burn. 

* * *

Matthew snaps back into reality, mere seconds after he left. He runs, hurtling toward Clayton, toward Patrick, harder than he's ever run before. 

Clayton’s good eye goes wide with fear, mouth opening to shout a warning, a protest, but there’s a steadiness in Matthew. It feels like everything is happening in slow motion. Patrick’s face swims into view, grizzled and wild with madness. The body starts to form, as does the gun. There will be no missing Clayton and Arabella at such close range. All the hair on Matthew's arms and neck raise. 

Patrick grins, ugly and triumphant. He aims his gun. Matthew lifts his hand to the sky, fingers shaking. Blood dribbles from his nose down his mouth. Thunder cracks. Patrick fires. A bolt of lightning slams down from the sky. Matthew _screams_. Pure, blistering heat sears down. Everything goes white. 

When the haze clears, only one man stands. 

Matthew is still on his feet, every nerve in his body jittering with power. What remains of Patrick Harvey lays there in the muck. The fingers of one hand are charred beyond recognition, both legs blown clear off of at the knees as he bleeds sluggishly into the dirt beneath him. Even now, wisps of smoke try to curl their way free, but there’s no use. The pieces of Patrick that manage to seep away catch fire and burn out before they can coalesce. 

Matthew manages one step, then another, on numb feet. He stares down at the pitiful heap that once was the stuff of nightmares. Then Matthew raises Clayton’s revolver and aims between Patrick's eyes. He squeezes the trigger. The retort echoes loud through the clearing. The smoke immediately dissipates. All that’s left is a pile of blood, skin, and ash. 

It's over. 


	6. it's a timekeeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clayton then fixes his attention on Matthew. “And you, Preacher, I hear from Miss Miriam and Arabella that I have a lot to thank you for in regards to your efforts.”
> 
> Matthew dips his head, demure. “Not at all, Mister Sharpe. Thanks be owed to God, not me.”
> 
> “Well, I ain’t inclined to thank Him for much, but I suppose I can make an exception and thank Him for you.” Clayton smiles, a tad lopsided. 
> 
> Matthew’s chest squeezes tight. He offers Clayton a small smile in response, helpless. “I’m sure He will appreciate the kindness, as will I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> upped the chapter count again, lads. this thing has a mind of it's own
> 
> Many thanks to my betas who both encouraged and helped me fix whatever the heck I'm doing here 
> 
> All the love to the discord server

Matthew falls to his knees next to Clayton, knees in the silt, and reaches. He grips Clayton’s shoulders, steadying him. 

“Ya damn fools.” Clayton coughs, wet and rattling. Arabella pulls the last of the ropes away. Clayton's face has seen better days. The one eye is swollen shut, deep green-blue bruising surrounds the socket, his hair and temple matted with blood.

“You think we’d just let these useless fuckers hare off with our favorite sharpshooter?” Matthew asks rhetorically, panic thundering in his heart.

Clayton tips back, head lolling. "That sure was somethin', Reverend. Looking like a picture right out of your holy book. Calling down lightnin' like the power of God smitin' th' wicked." His gaze glazes over. "Sure was somethin'."

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” Arabella says, worry coloring her voice. “I’ve done what I can, but we need to get him back into town. Now.”

Getting a limp, delirious Clayton to the meeting point is difficult. Matthew ends up carrying him most of the way, draping Clayton over his back as Arabella leads the way. 

Miriam and Aloysius are already there when they burst into the clearing, thank God. Aloysius is bleeding from a cut across his brow, and Miriam's dress is singed, her hands dotted with gunpowder, but both are relatively unharmed. 

Aloysius helps get Clayton onto the horse with Matthew. Clayton passes out in the process, pale faced and limp. Rope is wound around their waists, keeping Clayton tight against Matthew’s front. Tying him down reminds Matthew uncomfortably of how Harvey had bound Clayton, but it's as good as they can do right now. 

Matthew holds Clayton close during the gallop into town, doing as best he can to keep him from jostling his passenger, but it's a rough ride. Perhaps it’s a blessing that Clayton isn’t conscious for it.

* * *

They thunder into Deadwood, not stopping until they reach Arabella's office in a skid of hooves and spurs. Aloysius slices through the ropes and helps catch Clayton as he and Matthew slide bonelessly off the horse. People stop and stare, but Matthew takes no notice, focused on getting Clayton into the office and onto the table. Someone kicks the door shut behind them.

Arabella strips Clayton, exposing further wounds hidden by his clothes. Matthew removes Clayton's boots and sets them aside as Arabella grabs up herbs and crystals. Swearengen keeps saying he’s getting another doctor to come to town, but Arabella’s fairly taken over. The office is an unholy mishmash of medical practice and witchcraft, as if some forgotten apothecary had exploded. 

Matthew remembers when Arabella had first come to him, her hair coming loose, an old notebook in one hand and a fistful of Cochran's papers in the other. She'd been determined, eyes fever-bright, as she’d outlined her plan to resurrect Mister Sharpe: some of Doc's work, some of her own occult knowledge, and Matthew’s faith to cleanse the result.

She'd worried then about offending his holy sensibilities. Now, she doesn't even bother to ask for his permission, instead immediately setting to the task, bundling components and beginning to draw shapes in the air. “Hold him up.” Matthew does as she bids, one hand pressed to Clayton’s back, the other resting on his belly. Arabella tips tea down his slack throat. "It will keep him asleep for a while," she explains. "I don't want him waking up in the middle of this."

_This_ being cleaning out the various wounds. The worst being the one in Clayton's leg, a deep stab going almost completely through. It was a miracle he hadn't bled out. Matthew helps, reciting prayers when prompted and pressing Clayton's flesh together as she stitches it shut. Miriam and Aloysius leave and return and leave again. The hours pass in a blur until finally Clayton is mostly clean and bandaged. Later, once Matthew and Arabella have scrubbed the blood and filth from their hands, food is brought, but he can't bring himself to have more than a bite. 

Matthew sits, exhausted, side aching. 

"I thought for sure he'd shot you,” Arabella says, putting her tinctures away. “Harvey, I mean." 

“Oh,” Matthew replies, “he did.” 

Arabella's head snaps up. “What."

He waves her off. “It's just a graze.” It would heal on its own. 

Her mouth thins. “Show me.”

He lifts his shirt and hisses as it sticks and pulls. The wound bleeds anew, oozing down his side. The material is only useful for rags at this point, ruined with mud and blood and holes. He struggles to take it off, everything pulling painfully. Arabella moves to help him, easing the shirt down his arms and letting it fall to the floor. 

She pauses at the scars. Most everyone does. But she doesn't say anything on it, and for that he's grateful. "Arm up." 

He obeys with a wince. Her fingers are cold, but professional as she touches him. Matthew shivers a little bit as she probes bruised skin. It’s not the worst hurt Matthew’s ever experienced, though now that the adrenaline has passed, the ache has started to make itself known. 

“We'll have to disinfect it, but it's not deep.” She looks up at him, face serious. “You'll live,” she says, grave. 

Her stony expression cracks into a smile when a snort escapes him. “Yes, I figured as much.”

As she wipes alcohol, clear and undrinkable, on the wound. He hisses but doesn't jerk away. His focus drifts to watching Clayton, who’s unmoving except for the uneven rise and fall of his chest. The sight is alarmingly familiar to the day they had raised Clayton from the dead. Memories sit uneasy in his gut. 

He concentrates on the differences as Arabella bandages him up efficiently. Clayton’s cheeks flushed with life instead of grey. There is no wound in his chest. The implements they used to bring the dead to life are nowhere to be seen.

Arabella presses a palm to Matthew’s ribs and chants. Heat grows against his skin. She gives him a cruel little pat once she's done. At that, Matthew does flinch. 

"Now, next time you get shot, even if it's _'just a graze'_, you _will_ tell me about it."

He opens his mouth to protest. 

"Or I will inform Miriam that you were wounded and neglected to make it known."

He closes his mouth. 

She raises her eyebrow. "Good. Now go get something to eat, and go to bed."

"Only if you do, too."

She relents. They eat quickly and end up taking shifts on the small cot in her office, staying nearby in case the worst should happen, Clayton’s breaths rattling through the air.

* * *

The next few days are fraught. Clayton soaks with sweat over and over. The wound in his leg swells, stitches pulling tight as Arabella works tirelessly to keep the infection managed. Fever sets in. Clayton's lips move, and his eyes widen with fear, but he speaks nothing coherent, the madness of pyrexia. Inevitable afterclaps.

"Please," Clayton says. "Please, I didn't-" 

Matthew presses the cool towel to Clayton’s face, his forehead, runs fingers through Clayton's damp hair. Arabella packs ice against his leg wound and under his armpits. 

"It's all right," Matthew soothes. "I know you didn't." Clayton quiets, but still twitches fitfully. He pets Clayton's hair, hums a hymn under his breath. "It's all right, my dear." No one else can hear the endearment, anyway, and Clayton is in no state to remember. "It's all right." 

Clayton slips further into sleep. 

Miriam comes by with a bowl of soup and a hard loaf of bread. She skillfully guilts Matthew into eating. "You can take a night off, you know. Aly or I would be happy to sit with him."

"I know," he says, but the idea of leaving sits uneasy in his gut. “It just...feels like something I need to see through.”

“You’ve sure been putting a lot of time into taking care of him." She looks at him, eyebrows raised, voice clearly hinting at something. 

His shoulders hunch. "He's my friend." Matthew isn't sure who he's trying to convince. Her, or himself. It's harder to believe it now. A laugh like the flutter of cards echoes in the back of his mind. 

"I don't wish to pry, but, Reverend, you ain't been looking at him like a friend. You've been looking at him like a-" 

"Like a what?" Matthew snaps and instantly regrets it. 

But Miriam is patient and kind and does not descend to his antagonizing. "Like a man. A man who wants."

Matthew's mouth goes dry. All those little moments abruptly adding up. Oh, he was a thrice damned fool. He shakes his head. "Wanting alone is no reason to ruin...ruin what we have. He's my friend."

"_Wanting_, no." She pauses. "But I think we both know it's more than that."

"Miriam." A plea. 

But she won’t let him run from this. “Do you love him?”

Matthew looks down at his hands. “I'm not sure if I even know what love is.” His life is no example to measure such a thing. Love has always been something for other people.

“Sure, you do,” she says, her fingers slipping under his chin, lifting his head to look at her. Her words are measured and solemn. “Love bears all things, believes all things...” Her thumb coasts along the edge of his jaw. He closes his eyes. "Hopes all things, endures all things."

"Miriam." He huffs. Using his own holy words against him. 

"I think you been doing just fine at loving Mister Sharpe, sugar. He's a man who could certainly use it." She lets her hand fall away to press briefly at his chest where his heart beats. “Are you going to tell him?”

Matthew knows he is no great prize. The image of Clayton, awkward in the face of Matthew’s confession, twists his guts something fierce. He can see it clear as day. There’s no disgust there, but the pity in those clear, blue eyes, as he tries to let Matthew down gently would be unbearable. 

Matthew smiles, the line of his mouth bitter. "Some things are better left unspoken."

“Sometimes,” she admits. “But not always.” She gets to her feet. “Think on it, won’t you?” A final touch to his shoulder and she leaves him to his thoughts. "And you let me know if you need a break.”

“Yes, Miss Miriam,” he says, and they both know it’s a lie.

Once she’s gone, once they’re alone, Matthew looks over at Clayton, lying ill but alive in front of him. He reaches a conclusion. What he has now, their friendship, is enough. Matthew doesn’t need anything from Clayton. 

It’s funny how akin love is to pain. Hurt is an old friend to him at this point, and loving Mister Sharpe is no different.

He tries out the words—all three, just once—just to see what they feel like, _sound_ like, in his mouth. They taste like snow.

* * *

Clayton Sharpe doesn't wake for another two days. Matthew is reading, book tilted toward the single window in Arabella's cramped office, trying to catch the last bit of waning light before he’ll be forced to light a lantern. 

There's a cough, and a low, cracked voice. "Where ‘m I?" 

“Clayton!” Matthew bolts to his feet. 

He tries to sit up. "Ow, God damn mother fucking piece of-" 

"Don't get up just yet.” Matthew quickly, gently, presses him back to the cot. “You're still healing."

"You don't say."

A laugh barks out of Matthew, relief surging deep in his chest. Clayton is _alive _and breathing and already sarcastic. Emotion sweeps through him like a storm, wild and uncontainable. He- he needs- Matthew meets his mouth to Clayton’s. It’s just pressure, Clayton’s lips dry and cracked under his. Matthew’s mind catches up with his body, and he jerks back like he’s been burned. 

“I-”

"The hell?” Clayton says, breathless, gaze glassy. 

Fuck. This isn’t how he wanted to do it, it’s not right at all, but it had bubbled up in him, irrepressible. Panic jolts in his chest. “I’ll fetch Arabella.”

He flees. 

He’s catching his breath on the office porch and brings his hand up to his mouth. The kiss was impulsive and dry and yet...Matthew feels like _he’s _been struck by lightning. 

_Fuck_.

* * *

Arabella, thank all the deities of the world, is on her way to the office when Matthew meets her. He tells her that Clayton is awake. She hitches her skirts and dashes off, and Matthew is left there, in the thoroughfare of Deadwood, trembling. He can’t make himself go back. Not after- well. Not after. 

He goes to the Gem—drinks a little too much—but it doesn’t erase the phantom feel of Clayton’s mouth against his own. He’s not sure it could. Johnny brings him a meal, and Matthew eats it, even though he's not particularly hungry. Idly, he swipes the bread through the juice left on his plate and munches on his crust. Food serves well enough to sober him up. Time to face the music, like any good soldier. He snorts. He’s never been much of a good soldier, but he might as well start now. 

He gets to his feet, pays his tab at the bar, and steps out into the cool evening air. It’s a short jaunt back to the Doctor’s Office. He can spot Arabella’s shadow moving around inside. The wood of the porch creaks as he steps up. The door opens just as his hand encloses around the doorknob. Arabella and he blink at each other, surprised. She’s got her hat and coat on, clearly leaving for the night.

Matthew takes a step back. Arabella comes forward, closing the door quietly behind her. “Reverend.”

“How is he?” he asks tentatively.

Arabella blows a flyaway strand of her hair out of her vision. “He’s still pretty out of it. The fever, the pain. But he’s becoming more aware. It’s a good sign. We'll see if he can put any weight on that leg tomorrow." She smiles. "He'll be right as rain before you know it. He’s sleeping now, if you’d like to see him.”

“No,” Matthew says, just a little too abrupt. He softens his tone. “Let him sleep. He needs it.” Some unknown emotion curdles in his gut. It feels uncomfortably like guilt. He swallows. “I ...I think I’ll ask Miriam to take my shift tonight.”

Arabella grips his shoulder. “I’ll ask her; I’m headed that way. You did good, Matthew. He’s going to be okay.” She smiles at him. “Have a night for yourself, you’ve been spending more time in my office than I have.”

“Right.” He plasters on his priest’s face and hopes it doesn’t crack. “Goodnight, Arabella.”

* * *

The kiss had rattled his resolve. Matthew stays away. He reads his scriptures, runs his errands, speaks to the members of his congregation he’d neglected while watching over Clayton. Everyone asks him about Mister Sharpe. Their re-entrance into Deadwood had not been subtle, after all, and the townsfolk are brimming with curiosity. He replies as best he can. He doesn’t go to Arabella’s office, though he does pass by a time or two. 

He takes three days. Three days to wrestle with his self control, tighten down the desire that made his hands shake. He subsumes it with a more wholesome love. Sacrificial. It wasn’t right of him to make an advance on Clayton like that while the man was still hurting and confused. To exploit his vulnerability, even unintentionally, stabbed at Matthew’s heart.

Matthew had no claim to Clayton. Not like that. 

The clatter of shuffling echoes in Matthew’s mind. _“He is yours.” _

Matthew shoves the voice away and focuses on the Bible in front of him. _“I have made, and I will bear, even I will carry, and I will rescue you.”_

Matthew will bear. He will carry, and he will rescue. He will not ask for more. Whether Clayton is his or not. That’s not the kind of love this is. It isn’t consuming, but enduring. He will love Clayton Sharpe in silence, in the secret places of his heart. Unwavering. Unfaltering. As a shadow loves the moon. As a supplicant loves a god. 

* * *

Matthew can’t do right by Clayton while he’s hiding in his church. The next morning he goes to Arabella’s office. Aloysius is standing outside on the porch, the end of his cigar a red ember in the early morning light. He claps Matthew on the back. “Come on in, Rev. Miriam is sittin’ with him, but he’s awake and talking, not that he talks much. The man ain’t exactly ever been _verbose_, you know. We done filled him in about what happened, he couldn’t quite remember much.” Aloysius casts a sidelong look at him. “He’s been askin’ after you.”

“Well, it’s good I am here, then.” Matthew merely smiles, dimwitted and beatific at him. 

Aloysius snorts and moves aside.

Clayton looks well. That’s the first thing Matthew notes when he steps through Arabella’s office. He’s sitting upright in bed, a healthy color to his cheeks, his gaze clear and focused. A smattering of green-yellow smudges around his eye are all that remain of the bruising that had littered his face. “Matthew,” he says. “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes.” 

“I imagine that’s not the only thing that’s sore. How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been beat to shit, dragged behind a horse, stabbed, and nearly shot to death,” he says dryly. Miriam smacks him lightly. Clayton plays up his wince. “Such tender affections, Miss Miriam.”

“Don’t undo all my hard work, Miriam,” Arabella adds, a wry grin curling her lips. She fixes Clayton with a glare. “You didn’t drink your tincture.”

He scowls. “I don’t like it.”

“You’ll like screaming in pain less. Drink it.”

He pulls the small bottle out from under his pillow and glares as he swallows. Matthew does his valiant best not to focus on the bob of Clayton’s throat. 

“Thank you,” Arabella says primly. She takes the bottle from him, unaffected by his glowering. 

“Wait a minute,” Clayton says as she heads toward the door. “I’m- I’m glad you’re all here cause I got somethin’ to say.” He clears his throat. “I ain’t a man prone to expressin’ hisself, but...” He meets their eyes one at a time. “But you came for me when you didn’t have to. I want ya’ll to know you have my gratitude.”

“If you think we wouldn’t, you’re a damn fool,” Miriam says, the words softened by how gently she brushes back his hair. 

“I been called worse.” Clayton then fixes his attention on Matthew. “And you, Preacher, I hear from Miss Miriam and Arabella that I have a lot to thank you for in regards to your efforts.”

Matthew dips his head, demure. “Not at all, Mister Sharpe. Thanks be owed to God, not me.”

“Well, I ain’t inclined to thank Him for much, but I suppose I can make an exception and thank Him for you.” Clayton smiles, a tad lopsided. 

Matthew’s chest squeezes tight. He offers Clayton a small smile in response, helpless. “I’m sure He will appreciate the kindness, as will I.”

“Matthew,” Miriam says—sweet, blessed Miriam—pulling his focus away from Clayton. “You’ve not been by lately. With how you practically slept here before, color me surprised.” Her eyes sparkle with humor. Matthew takes back his previous praise. Cursed, damned Miriam.

He knows she only means to tease, to fluster, not to hurt, but it feels like a finger digging into a bruise. He clears his throat. “No,” he answers, calm. “The flock needed tending and, as you said, I’d been absent from the church for some time.”

“How attentive you are, Father,” she says, but when he doesn’t react, the smile fades.

This is more difficult than expected. “Yes, well, it’s good to see you doing so well, Mister Sharpe, but I’m afraid I must be going.”

“You’ll be by tomorrow, though, won’t you?” Clayton asks, already growing drowsy. “Arabella said you’d been takin’ shifts.”

If Clayton requests it, he can hardly refuse. “Of course, I would be happy to.”

He feels Clayton’s gaze rest on his back as he leaves. 

* * *

Matthew hesitates on the porch the next day, but Miriam throws open the door and bustles him inside before he can object. “It’s a good thing you’re back, Matthew. He’s been awful down in the mouth these past days, I think seeing you yesterday raised his spirits some,” Miriam says. Her dark eyes meet his. “Did you figure out what you needed to?”

“I-“ He begins to formulate a sidestep, a lie, but it catches in his throat. “Yes,” he settles on, wrong-footed. 

“Good.” Her shrewd gaze studies him. 

He looks down at himself. Black overshirt, dark trousers, a stack of books under one arm. “Do I meet expectations?”

She purses her mouth. “It’ll do.” A gentle push toward where Clayton is staying. “Go on, he’s waiting.”

Matthew tips his hat. “Thank you, Miss Miriam.”

Clayton, true to her word, is still in bed. The line of his shoulders seem to ease when he spots Matthew. “Miriam said you’d be by.” But Clayton hasn’t been sure, clearly, by the slight surprise that widens his eyes. 

“Yes,” Matthew says, “I’m afraid you’ll have to suffer through my company today.” He sets his books down, taking a seat with a small groan. Praying on his knees hasn’t been doing him any favors. 

“A grim fate,” Clayton rasps. “I’d say you were just as stuck with me, but I suppose you outta be used to it by now.”

Matthew pauses in bending down to the first novel in his stack. “Oh?” 

“They said you stayed with me near night and day.” Clayton looks at him curiously, the way a raven studies something shiny. 

Matthew turns the page in his book and pretends not to notice. “Yes, Arabella and I both. You were awful wounded and she was attempting to control the infection. She needed some assistance, I merely lent a helping hand.” He looks up. “You don’t remember?” 

Clayton’s gaze darkens. “I- I remember Harvey on that beach. I remember you calling down lightning to smite that fucker. Don’t recall much after that.” He shrugs. “Next thing I can recollect with any clarity is Arabella checking my bandages and explaining what happened.”

“I see,” Matthew says. A churning mix of relief and disappointment swirls in his belly. Clayton didn’t remember the thoughtless press of lips that had seared Matthew down to his bones. Well. That was probably for the best. 

“Color me surprised when Miriam tells me you’d barely leave my side to eat when I haven’t seen hide nor hair of you.”

Matthew closes the book, having barely read a word, resigning himself to the fact that this conversation is happening whether he likes it or not. “I’m sorry; I didn’t intend to worry you.”

“Wasn’t worried,” Clayton refutes with a shrug. 

“Right,” Matthew replies. “Of course. Silly of me.”

“Just-“ Clayton starts, gaze fixed elsewhere. “Just didn’t like not knowin’. Stuck here, you know, bored as shit.”

Ah. Matthew can’t imagine being bedridden and unable to find answers was easy, especially for a man like Mister Sharpe. He reaches out, carefully pats at his blanket covered ankle. “Well, perhaps we can find something to entertain you.”

Clayton jerks his chin. “I think Arabella’s got some cards in her desk.”

Matthew feels lightheaded. Whispers coil. _“What would you give?”_ Nausea rolls in his belly. “No,” he says, fighting and failing to keep his voice casual. Clayton gives him a strange look. “I- I find I don’t have the stomach for it at the moment.”

“All right,” Clayton says slowly.

“Perhaps something a little more pedestrian?” Matthew suggests. “A book perhaps?” He shakes the object in question.

“I ain’t much of a reader.”

Matthew wracks his brain. “Well, I could read to you?”

Clayton pauses long enough that Matthew fights the urge to squirm, pinned under his gaze. “Fine,” he says. “Just no scriptures.”

Matthew exhales. “Wonderful.” He’s holding a mystery novel Miss Katy had lent him. “Shall I start from the beginning?”

Clayton lies his head back. “Sure.”

Matthew begins to read. A few pages in, Clayton speaks. “You got a nice voice, Matthew.”

“Oh,” Matthew says, pleasure at the compliment warming his cheeks. “Thank you.”

Twenty minutes later, Clayton is asleep. Matthew takes a small moment to gaze on him, before reading a bit longer, but eventually Aloysius comes in and tells him to go get dinner, Miriam is waiting for him. Matthew dons his hat while Aloysius steals his seat. 

* * *

Matthew doesn’t neglect his time with Clayton, though neither does he monopolize it. Matthew is not the kind of person that demands someone’s whole attention. Having the others around makes Clayton happy, though he might not admit it, and Clayton being happy makes Matthew happy. 

They talk together on his shifts at Clayton’s bedside, although Matthew does most of the heavy lifting there, rambling on about the town or the latest shootout. Clayton offers commentary, but mostly listens, profile angled toward the sun like some content feline. Sometimes, Clayton will look at him, brow furrowed as if trying to puzzle something out before shaking his head and moving on to other things.

Matthew’s heart settles into contentment.

He doesn’t talk about the kiss. 

He thinks about it, though. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there was one (1) smooch, you can't be mad


	7. music maker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arabella bursts back into her office. "You decent?" 
> 
> Clayton scowls, clearly in the middle of hobbling back to bed. "Would it have stopped you if I weren't?" 
> 
> "Not in the least. Seen one, seen 'em all," she says brightly. "Good news, Sharpe, you get to leave the kind hospitality of my office. The Reverend has graciously offered to put you up until that leg finishes healing."
> 
> "No need to do that on my account, Reverend." Clayton looks away, clearly uncomfortable with the gesture. 
> 
> "Believe me, it is no effort," Matthew tries to reassure him. "It would be a great worry off my mind to know where you are and that you’re all right. Please."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many thanks to the discord server for keeping me going and to my betas who make me look good

Clayton is on his feet, hand braced against the bed like a newborn colt unsure of his legs when Matthew walks in on his next visit. 

“Clayton!” he says, startled to see him upright and somewhat mobile. 

“Matthew,” Clayton nods, jaw tight. The surly disposition doesn’t seem directed at him, but more at the world in general, so Matthew doesn’t take it personally. 

Arabella is washing up in the nearby sink. “How’s the pain?”

“Manageable,” Clayton replies stiffly. 

Arabella hums disbelievingly. “It’s good progress. Small walks to start with and stretching. We’ll change your bandages today, see how your stitches are holding up.” She looks over at Matthew. “Would you give Mister Sharpe a hand to the chair?”

“Of course.” Matthew darts forward, bracing Clayton carefully at the elbow and gently easing him down to sit. 

“Pants off,” Arabella calls. 

“I’ll step outside,” Matthew says, reading the discomfort on Clayton’s face. 

“Don’t go too far,” Arabella arches an eyebrow in his direction. “I’m checking on you, too.”

“Pants on, I hope,” Matthew jokes. 

Clayton’s gaze on him sharpens. “You hurt, Matthew?”

He smiles down at his friend. “Merely a graze, I assure you. Miss Arabella is only being diligent.”

“Why don’t you take a look at the Father first,” Clayton says to Arabella without taking his eyes off Matthew. 

“You’re not getting out of being tended to, Clayton.” She says as she comes around the bed, but gestures Matthew to sit. 

He knows what it’s like to fight a losing battle, but still gives it a try. “It’s much better, I assure you.”

Arabella continues to look at him, clearly unimpressed, and he decides that discretion is the better part of valor. He takes his seat. Matthew starts undoing the buttons of his outer shirt, carefully removing it, trying to twist as little as possible. He’s down to linen, thin and flexible enough to be lifted. He rucks his undershirt up for her to examine his ribs. It keeps the majority of his scars hidden.

Arabella unwinds his bandages. He shivers as cold air reaches bare skin. “It’s healing quickly.” Fingertips press new, pink skin. Matthew hums in acknowledgement. Her eyes flick up to his for a moment. “You been rubbing that salve I gave you on it?”

“Morning and night,” he replies. 

She glares over his shoulder. “Nice to know some of my patients listen to orders.”

Matthew turns just in time to catch Clayton in the childish indignity of sticking out his tongue. Amusement bursts in Matthew’s chest, but he keeps it contained. Clayton quickly schools his features, but it’s too late.

“All right,” Arabella straightens. Matthew lets his shirt fall back down. “I don’t think it needs to be rewrapped, just try to keep it dry, let me know if anything changes.”

“Yes, Doctor.” He smiles at her, fond. 

She errantly blows a lock of hair out of her face. “Now you, Mister Sharpe.” Clayton grumbles, and his hands fall to his waistband and buckles jangle. Matthew makes himself scarce. It wouldn’t do to test his self control. He thinks he can hear Clayton and Arabella bickering as he goes. 

Matthew heads down the thoroughfare, somewhat aimless, with vague intentions of getting lunch. The distant pop of gunfire a few streets over makes him pause, but the sound doesn’t strike up again, so he resumes his stroll. 

“Hey! Hey, Preacher!” the man hollers. It’s familiar. Matthew turns. Ned grins at him, his pack of layabouts around him. 

“Well, if it ain’t the laziest gaggle of gossips in town,” Matthew greets and crosses the street.

Ned claps him on the back, all effortless charm and pretty face. “How’s your fella doin’? We heard the lady doc fixed him up, but that he was in bad shape.”

“How bad can it be,” Luke says with a scoff, “If you’ve already been killed once.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Sawyer says, shoving at Luke. “You didn’t see ‘im. Blood all over, paler than a sheet.”

“How would you know? Yer sheets ain’t been clean a day in your life.”

“Boys!” Matthew barks. They all swivel to look at him. He puts a hand up. “Mister Sharpe is quite well.”

“See?” Bill says. “Just you wait, Sharpe will be spit-shined and surly before you know it.”

Matthew smiles at that. “One can hope.”

“Hey, hey, Liam. Have you met the Preacher here?” Ned manhandles him to the front. Liam is looking slightly better than last Matthew set eyes on him. Less dirty, at the very least. The man gazes up at him like a kicked dog.

“We’re acquainted,” Matthew answers for him. He smiles, warm and inviting, no previous trace of the soldier beneath. “Liam. What are you doing, flocking with these coffee boilers?” 

“Hey now, Preacher. That’s just hurtful.” Ned pretends at offense. “Liam here is helpin’ us out. Watchmen duty, so he ain’t on that leg of his.”

He tilts his head with consideration. “Is that so?”

“Sure is,” Ned answers. 

Bill throws his arm over the other man’s shoulder. “Liam knows his letters _and _his numbers, so once his hand can hold a pen again, pappy wants to move him into the office.”

“Sounds like a swell opportunity.” He fixes a look on him. “You living up to your name, Liam?”

“Yes, sir.” Liam nods, narrow chest lifting, shoulders pulling back. “I am.”

Matthew pats his shoulder. “Good man.”

“Well, now that we’re all friends here, figured we try ‘n bend yer elbow, Preacher. I’ll even buy your first round.” Ned grins, too charming by half.

“Maybe a few rounds of cards, eh?” Bill elbows him encouragingly. 

Matthew studies them, expression serious. They beam back at him, as cherubic as anything. He doesn’t believe it for a second. “You’re just trying to bilk me out of my coin, aren’t you?”

“Course. I reckon we’d have a better shot of it without Mister Sharpe watchin’ your back.”

Matthew sighs heavily. “I suppose I ought to embrace my fate.”

Ned laughs. “No escaping it now, Preacher.”

They don’t take him for as much coin as they were hoping, Matthew didn’t get this far in life without knowing how to cheat at cards as much as the next gunslinger. He leaves with his pockets more or less as filled as he went in. Still, the night is merry and they even see him home to the church amid raucous catcalls that no doubt wake the neighbors. 

* * *

“Can't a man take a piss in peace?" Clayton Sharpe yells. 

Matthew halts in front of the doctor's office door. Clayton had been healing slowly but surely, though his convalescence wasn't rapid enough to Clayton’s tastes. He'd been growing more and more irascible as the days went on. They were heading into week number three, and he was practically chomping at the bit from cabin fever.

Arabella's voice snaps back, "You'll end up with more piss _on _you than-" 

"_Out!_" 

Arabella stomps out, the door slamming shut behind her. "Cow-brained, pigheaded _men!_" 

Matthew pauses. "I suppose this is a bad time."

“He’s getting too high for his nut.” She crosses her arms. "I liked him better when he was unconscious."

Matthew offers her an understanding smile. “It’s not like he can wake snakes with that leg of his. Perhaps it's time to move Mister Sharpe back to his room?"

Her frown deepens. "He can't manage stairs very well yet, and..."

"And?"

"That's where those bastards took him from. He's unable to protect himself right now, I don't know if going back to the hotel is good for him. Mentally. Mister Sharpe has always been a paranoid individual even before all of this shit.” She exhales, wraps her coat more tightly around herself. “I worry.”

“Railway brain. Soldier’s heart." Matthew is familiar with such things. Both in the men he fought with and in himself during and after the wars. There are nights even now he wakes up screaming, nightmares plaguing his sleep. 

Arabella nods. “Yes. I wouldn't be surprised if he’s always had such nostalgias. Now, with this?” She works her teeth against her bottom lip. “The opium helps him sleep, but it’s not good long term. He’s already weaned himself off it mostly. Can’t imagine he likes his head being clouded.”

“No, I imagine not.”

She chews on her lip. “I don’t want him in that hotel, Matthew.”

Matthew nods. "But unless you want him staying with you, stairs are inevitable."

"I know, but if he stays with _me_, I'll end up undoing all our hard work and killing him myself." She makes vague squeezing shapes with her hands. 

He laughs. "The church then? If he can manage the stairs once I can care for him there."

"I think that might be best. I hate to put that on you,” she says, sympathy clear in her gaze. 

Matthew shifts his weight. "Don't say that, it's no trouble really."

She looks at him. "Oh."

"What?" 

"I just- I didn't realize."

Matthew frowns. “Is something wrong?” 

“No, no. Course not. I knew you were soft on him, but I didn't think-" Her sentence is cut off by the sound of crashing and Clayton swearing. She presses her palm to her face and makes a strangled noise. "Right. You can sort out whatever the hell you’re doing on your own time. Let's go give him the good news."

"But-" 

Arabella bursts back into her office. "You decent?" 

Clayton scowls, clearly in the middle of hobbling back to bed. "Would it have stopped you if I weren't?" 

"Not in the least. Seen one, seen 'em all," she says brightly. "Good news, Sharpe, you get to leave the kind hospitality of my office. The Reverend has graciously offered to put you up until that leg finishes healing."

"No need to do that on my account, Reverend." Clayton looks away, clearly uncomfortable with the gesture. 

"Believe me, it is no effort," Matthew tries to reassure him. "It would be a great worry off my mind to know where you are and that you’re all right. Please."

"Fuck." Clayton pinches the bridge of his nose. "Fine."

"_Wonderful_," Arabella says in a voice that sounds a little too honeyed to be genuine. "I'll gather your things." She turns. "The Reverend will have the place all set up for you."

Matthew thinks of his neglected room and old sheets. "Yes," he fibs. "Right away."

"Superb. Aly can get us to the church if you want to go tidy up." 

"Ah, yes. I think I shall." He warms with embarrassment from being caught out. "Missus Whitlock, Mister Sharpe. See you shortly."

Matthew jogs back to the church and quickly strips his bed, putting on clean linens. The old sheets get briefly repurposed for dusting, but they’re to be washed anyway. He works up a sweat wiping down the various surfaces, making sure there are no forgotten objects on the stairs, and putting his dishes away. He takes off his jacket and wipes his brow. Cracking open a window to increase ventilation helps and cool air begins to circulate through. Soon, his little bedroom is thoroughly cleaned. 

He brings his laundry down to the tap that runs to the church on the ground floor. The metal basin fills, and he quickly grates off a few flakes of laundry soap to soak his sheets and clothes with. He’s still washing when Aloysius shouts that they’ve arrived. 

Matthew quickly dries off his hands and hurries to the front. Clayton is leaning up against the doorframe, still favoring his leg, Aloysius with one hand braced on the other side of the doorway. What a pair the two of them make. 

“...Unrelenting, like a landslide, till he got what he wanted. I ain’t never seen nothin’ like it. If it hadn’t happened in front of my own two eyes, I wouldn’t believe it,” Aloysius is saying. 

Clayton shakes his head. “But why? That don’t make no sense-”

“There you are!” Aloysius says, smiling away, cutting off whatever it was that Clayton had been speaking. 

“Gentlemen,” Matthew greeted, happy to see them both. “How was the ride?”

“Short.” Clayton’s answer is curt, but he looks pained. Matthew can’t imagine riding would be very enjoyable for his leg. 

“Here’re Sharpe’s things.” Aloysius pats a roll of clothing. “I’ll leave him in your capable hands, then, Father?” 

The words sound familiar, though he cannot place why. Matthew gets the sense he’s being teased. “Yes, he’ll be well taken care of.”

Aloysius laughs. “Of that, I have no doubt.” He tips his hat and carefully makes his way back to his horse, reins loosely looped on the front rail. 

Matthew watches him go, stirring up dust, before angling toward his guest. “Shall we head upstairs?”

Clayton nods, expression obscured by the edge of his hat. Matthew is both pleased and annoyed by its reappearance. Clayton looks and feels more like his old self, but Matthew had gotten rather used to seeing his cornflower blue eyes without obstruction. Clayton takes a faltering step, jaw tight. 

Matthew moves forward. “Let me-”

“I can do it,” Clayton growls.

Matthew has his doubts, but Clayton clearly has his pride. He manages to reach the foot of the stairs with ample help from the pews, breathing heavily. Matthew hovers. “Let me help you.” He pitches his voice soft. “Please.” He holds his fingers out, near Clayton’s arm.

“Don’t carry me. Sick of being carried.”

“All right,” Matthew easily concedes to Clayton’s qualification. Clayton leans on him. Matthew, hesitantly, slides a hand around Clayton’s back, fingers resting at his hip bone. The stairway is tight between the two of them, both broad-shouldered, no space to force between them. Slowly, laboriously, they make their way upstairs. 

Matthew carefully sits Clayton onto the bed. The hat slips free. Matthew bends to pick it up and place it nearby as Clayton, with a grunt, swings his legs onto the bed. 

“Well, preacher,” Clayton says, voice irritated. “You got me here. Now what?” 

“You look ready to keel over any moment, Mister Sharpe,” he says. “Have a rest and then we will eat.”

“I ain’t hungry.” Clayton works his jaw mulishly. 

Matthew resists the urge to sigh. “Perhaps you will be later. I’ll keep it warm.”

“Why are you doing this anyway?” Clayton snaps, abrupt. “I’d’ve been just fine elsewhere, no matter what Arabella said. I know what she thinks.” His lip curls. “Smart enough to bring back the dead, but ain’t smart enough to lock her notes away.”

“Clayton,” Matthew tries to placate. “She’s just concerned, as am I.”

“I’m fine, my head’s fine. I ain’t one of your sheep, _Reverend_, there’s no need to sully yourself on my account” he snarls. “You don’t have to-”

“Take care of you?” Matthew cuts him off. 

The anger seems to deflate out of Clayton as soon as it had come. He looks away. “I ain’t worth the fuss.”

How can he not know? How could he possibly think Matthew could have any regret in the privilege of tending to him? Clayton is worth the effort a thousand times over. Matthew would do _anything _for him.

“I love you,” Matthew confesses quietly from the door, gaze on the floor. “I would do this and far more for you, as you well know, Mister Sharpe.”

“...What?” Clayton rasps. 

Matthew raises his eyes, offers him a small, sad smile. Clayton’s face is blank. Well, that was to be expected. Better to get on, then. His laundry was waiting.

“Where’re you going?” Clayton’s question cracks out like a whip.

Matthew doesn’t turn. He can’t do this. He can’t face Clayton without regrouping first. “To finish my laundry. Rest, Mister Sharpe. I’ll be right outside.” And he exits down the stairs. 

“Hey!” Clayton hollers. “Hey! You can’t just-! Get back here, you _fucker-_”

Matthew keeps going, despair nipping at his heels.

* * *

The therapeutic motions of sudsing, rinsing and hanging out to dry are familiar. The motions allow his mind to ponder over his actions. He knows Clayton is prickly on the best of days, let alone when wounded and confined, but it had been unfair to leave like that knowing Clayton couldn’t follow after. Cruel, even. Especially after such a confession. 

Recrimination eats at Matthew. Seems he was still running away, even after all this time. Miriam would tan his hide if she’d knew what he’d done. There was nothing he could do but go back upstairs and try to make amends. 

Clayton is sleeping when he returns. From the state of the room it looks like Clayton attempted to traverse, but couldn’t get past the stairs. The guilt increases tenfold. Matthew fixes dinner so there’s something to do with his hands besides falling to Clayton’s beside and asking for forgiveness. Something simple—meat and vegetables, but hearty and filling. He can manage it even with shaking hands. He’s just about finished when Clayton gasps awake.

“You’re all right,” Matthew says without turning around. “You’re with me in the church. It’s evening time. Dinner’s just about finished.”

“Matthew,” Clayton says, but the word sounds less like a request for attention and more of a self assurance.

“Yes. I’m here. Everything is fine.” Matthew continues in his work, spooning potatoes into a bowl, listening to Clayton's breathing even out from the sharp gasping it had been when he woke to something slow and steady. The covers rustle as Clayton sits up. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-” Matthew stops. Reorganizes. He won’t apologize for loving Clayton, but he ought to for what he did after. “It was wrong of me to leave. I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me for it. It won’t happen again.”

“Matthew,” Clayton repeats. 

Matthew focuses harder on dinner, as if he can make himself less of an object of focus by sheer willpower. 

He hears Clayton swear under his breath. “_Matthew_,” a third time, a little impatient. “For fuck’s sake, you’re forgiven. Now, would you look at me?”

Matthew is helpless to the request. 

Clayton shifts, hands curled tightly in his sheets. “I’m...I’m not an easy man to love.”

Oh. So they _were _discussing it. Misery curls up in his bones. Protests clog his throat, but he can’t speak. Matthew wouldn’t love him if it were easy. 

Clayton continues. “And I apologize. For what I said before. About you taking care of me.”

Matthew begins to amend. “Clayton, you don’t have to-”

Clayton continues. “No. It weren’t fair to you after all you done.”

Matthew’s chest squeezes. “It’s not about debt, Mister Sharp. There are no debts between friends.” If friendship is all that he receives from Clayton after this, it would be more than enough. 

“Is that what we are?”

Anxiety flutters in his belly, but Matthew answers anyway. “That’s up to you. I told you where I stand, Mister Sharpe. You wanted to know why, and I answered, but I’m not asking anything from you." Matthew smiles. “I’m quite content to love you regardless.” 

“You can’t just keep-” Clayton’s voice is tight. “Jesus H. Christ, put the food down, Matthew, and come here.”

Matthew dutifully sets the bowl down and steps over, only from the front of his shirt to be seized in Clayton’s fist. “Clay-”

Furious blue eyes bore into his. “Now you listen here, Matthew Mason.” The threat slips between bared teeth. But then Clayton seems to stall out, something cornered in his expression. Instead, he pulls Matthew down into a kiss. Matthew’s spine goes stiff. It starts like before, the press of lips and nothing more. But then mouths part and Clayton is _kissing_ him. 

Lord, Matthew’s never done this before—kissed a man. _Really_ kissed. He leans forward, unable to keep from relaxing into Clayton’s hold. Clayton's beard tickles against his own, but it's good. Not all that different from kissing anyone else, either, except it's _better_ because it's _Clayton_. Hands shift into Matthew's short hair, keeping him in place. 

Teeth dig into his lip, a tongue slips into his mouth. Matthew moans, soft and irrepressible. The heat in his belly flares up once more. Clayton only breaks the connection when he has to catch his breath. Matthew stares down at Clayton in a state of shock. Clayton is flushed pink, mouth wet. Matthew feels overheated, like his skin is splitting open, too full to be contained. As if he’s channeling lightning again, nerves buzzing alight.

Clayton takes a moment to speak. The words come fierce and hushed. “Don’t- don’t you ever think I’m not in this with you. I am.”

“All right.” Matthew’s voice cracks. 

Clayton gently releases him, something a little smug in the curl of his grin. “You steady, there, Reverend?”

“Yes.” The confirmation is hoarse. Matthew’s been kissed a time or two in his life, but this? This was something else altogether. 

Clayton softens, as much as a man like him can. “You took me by surprise. Earlier. Didn't think you went in for this kind of thing."

"I do," he says. An incredulous laugh leaks out of him. He'd been tangled up in Clayton from the moment they'd met. "I didn't know; I didn’t realize at first. I thought- but I was wrong. I should have kissed you the moment we pulled you back to life that night so long ago, but I didn't _know_, Clay. And then I almost lost you again."

“It’s all right,” Clayton says, palms running soothingly down his sides, like he’s some sort of spooked horse. “I’m here now and so are you.”

“Yes,” Matthew says, pressing their foreheads together. “Yes.”

* * *

The next week is filled with Clayton. Helping him walk and stretch his leg to Arabella’s recommendations. Reading, cooking, cleaning. 

And kisses, too. 

Clayton is surprisingly affectionate when they’re alone, kisses placed on Matthew’s knuckles, on his cheeks, given in thanks, in greeting, in moments when Matthew isn’t sure there’s a reason beyond simply wanting to. Bashful, reverent kisses. Matthew gets the sense that this is what it is like to be wooed by a man like Clayton. 

Matthew often finds a reason to briefly excuse himself for some fresh air and try to get himself under control. Clayton seems to enjoy winding him up. It’s enjoyable, this…this playfulness between them. 

Until Clayton’s teasing pushes too far. He’d been touching Matthew all day—little touches—fingers at his wrist—when Clayton hands him coffee, a palm resting on Matthew’s knee while they eat. Innocuous. The furtive contact is driving him mad, though he won’t say so. It’s an exquisite sort of suffering, that Clayton stokes the embers, but never fans them. Matthew isn’t even sure he’s doing it on purpose. 

Clayton asks for Matthew’s help on his walk around the bedroom—though he doesn’t need much support these days—only to lean into Matthew’s space, press a hand to his back, as if his leg were more feeble than expected. Matthew knows it isn’t. Clayton is only a little winded when he finally takes a seat on the bed. Clayton slides fingers down Matthew’s side, gently beckoning Matthew to lean down, and presses a lingering kiss that’s more at the corner of his mouth than his cheek. It’s just enough.

Matthew’s control slips. 

He takes Clayton’s mouth with his, pressing, wanting. The resulting inhalation of surprise allows Matthew to deepen the connection, the burning want gnawing at his belly. He raises a hand to Clayton’s jaw, thumb to his cheek. He chases after Clayton, presses him back against the sheets. The sharp scent of ozone fills his mind, _“Have him, have him, have him.”_

“Doesn’t your god have something to say about this?” Clayton asks with far too much amusement in his eyes when Matthew breaks for air. There's a moment where Matthew thinks of fingertips pressed to card edges, a grin like the slice of a paper cut, before he shifts to rosary beads and prayers, his thoughts muddied with want.

“Two are better than one,” Matthew recites, “for if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow; but woe to him that is alone when he falleth, and hath not another to lift him up.” His hands slide to Clayton's hips and carefully pull him closer. Matthew wants to replace that humor with the same black-eyed desire he’s seen once before. He presses a thigh between Clayton’s legs.

“_Matthew_.” His name is breathless off Clayton’s tongue. Matthew rewards him with another kiss just under his jaw. 

“Again, if two lie together, then they have warmth; but how can one be warm alone?”

Clayton bucks and groans, but the sound has nothing to do with lust. It’s pained. Matthew startles backwards, alarmed. Clayton pushes onto one elbow, his free hand flying to his thigh, gripping with white knuckles. “Fuck,” he snarls. 

“Clayton, I am so sorry. I didn’t think- Are you all right?” Stupid. He was so _stupid _to let his wants get the better of him.

“‘M fine. Quit worrying. You didn’t do anything I didn’t want you to. My fault for teasin’ you.” Clayton hisses a little, shifting. “Just pulled a bit funny.”

Matthew darts forward to help situate him. Clayton looses a little sigh once he’s eased back against the headboard. Matthew attempts to give him space, but a firm hand at his side prevents him from leaving. “C’mere.” Clayton tilts his head up, a clear request. Matthew gives Clayton a gentle, close-lipped kiss in apology. 

“Not that I’m complainin’,” Clayton says with a crooked smile. “But I don’t think I’ll be up for much bed warming for a while.” 

“That’s all right,” Matthew is quick to reassure. "It can wait." 

“You don’t mind?” Clayton asks. 

“No,” he says. “Not at all.”

Matthew's faith has taught him a lot about waiting. 

* * *

Matthew doesn't know the first thing about pleasuring a man, beyond what pleases himself. It's too embarrassing to ask Miriam or Arabella, too intimate. He seeks out the experts. He tells Clayton he’ll be gone, running errands, and Arabella would be by for some company. Clayton waves him off and Matthew tries not to act too guilty about the subterfuge. 

The girls at the Bella Union are more than happy to help with his ignorance. He leaves feeling dazed and _thoroughly_ educated. 

* * *

“Matthew.”

“Yes, Clay.”

“There ain’t nothin’ to do.”

“You’ve already had your allotted walks, Mister Sharpe,” Matthew reminds him. “It will only set your healing longer to strain it.” Matthew has a vested interest in getting that leg healed as soon as possible. 

Clayton sighs heavily. Comfortable silence falls once again.

“We could spoon.”

Matthew coughs. “Say again?”

“I won’t even move my leg, I promise.” 

“Clayton, I don’t think-“

“No funny business,” he says, mouth curled into a smirk. “I swear.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.”

“You wound me, Reverend.” He pats the bed. “It’s awful cold is all.”

“I’ll put a log in the stove.”

“It ain’t the same,” Clayton objects, having no right to look as mournful as he does. Matthew would nearly call it pouting, if it didn’t work so damn well. “Just anchor me for a moment?”

Well, fuck. “You ain’t playing fair, Mister Sharpe.”

He grins. “I never do.”

Matthew makes his way over, carefully slipping into bed beside Clayton. There should be fumbling or awkwardness, Matthew thinks, but they’ve shared camp too many times before this development for it to feel anything other than familiar. Easy.

Clayton’s head rests on Matthew’s shoulder. His bright blue eyes are open, though not focused on any one thing. One hand rests on Matthew’s chest, near his heart. 

“You should sleep, if you can,” Matthew says. 

“Feels like I been doing nothin’ but sleeping and straggling around.”

Matthew carefully lays his hand atop Clayton’s. “You’re healing. It’s to be expected.”

“Not much healing left to do, accordin’ to Arabella. Says I’ll be right enough to come down to the saloon for dinner tomorrow.”

“It will be nice to have you with us at the Gem; they’ve all asked about you. Even that bastard Swearengen.”

Clayton hums. “Not sure I’ll ever get used to that.”

“To what?” Matthew asks.

“Folks caring.”

Matthew drops a quick kiss to the top of his head. “You will, if I have any say.”

“Aloysius told me how Sol tipped you off about who snitched on me, and that Joanie gave you a place to have a chat with one of Harvey’s men.”

Matthew rumbles a low sound of confirmation and remembrance. “That they did. I wouldn't have been able to find you without them.” 

Clayton’s thumb roves in little motions, back and forth, soothing. “Easy, now.” Matthew holds him more snugly and reminds himself with the weight of their bodies that Clayton is here and safe. “It’ll be strange, moving back into the hotel after all this,” Clayton says.

“You don’t have to,” Matthew says, nerves fluttering. “You’re more than welcome to remain here. With me.”

Clayton is quiet for a moment. “With such a convenient heater as you are, Matthew Mason, that’s mighty tempting. That hotel gets damned cold.”

Matthew smiles. “Think on it.”

Clayton nods. 

“So…is this what we are?” Matthew asks. “People who spoon for warmth?”

“More, if’n I had my way.” There's a faint hint of pink in Clayton's ears.

Matthew’s throat clicks, dry. He’s abruptly aware of the scant space between them. “Right.” He thinks for a moment. “And our affections are to be…exclusive?”

Clayton’s fingers tighten. “I ain’t much for sharing.” He looks up, eyes dark. “That a problem?”

“No.” Matthew quite likes the proprietary way Clayton handles his attachments. Territorial and protective. 

Clayton huffs. “Smug fucker.”

“Should we tell the others?” Matthew asks.

“I think they already know,” Clayton replies lazily.

Matthew blinks. “They do?”

A bark of quick laughter rattles out of Clayton, shaking tnem both. “You and I_—_we ain’t exactly _subtle_.”

“Oh.” Miriam, Matthew knew, had them figured, but the rest…. Suddenly so many little comments made sense. Well, Matthew really was played for a fool, wasn’t he? But with Clayton pressed to his side, he can’t say he minds. “Are you my lover, then?” he asks. “My beau?”

“How about partners?” Clayton asks. “You and me, for as long as the world lets us.”

“Of course,” Matthew says. He runs a hand down Clayton’s hair, soft under his palm. “Partners.” He likes the sound of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more smooches to make up for last chapter 
> 
>   
just the epilogue to go :)
> 
> (also how would yall feel about some smut?)


	8. or backstreet truth teller

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting the final chapter/epilogue nearly a year, almost to the day, after I started this story. we did it folks, this is the end. Hope you enjoyed the ride.
> 
> Many thanks to my betas, aria and tragicallynerdy, and to the Undeadwood discord for keeping me going. Special shoutout to Imke and Constance, who, without, this fic would never have been finished.
> 
> And of course, thanks to Brian and the cast of Undeadwood.

"I don't see why Arabella's gotta come all the way over here just to take out some stitches. I can do it; it ain't hard." Clayton's eyes slide over to him. "Or _you_ could."

Matthew walks over, keeping his gaze heavy and purposeful. He lays his hand on Clayton's thigh, just to watch the man blush. Underneath his palm lies a neat row of dark thread, which had once held Clayton’s flesh together. 

"Believe me, Mister Sharpe," Matthew rumbles. "When I undress you, it will be with a different intention." He gives Clayton a gentle pat and steps away. “Besides, ‘Bella should be here any minute, wouldn’t want to be caught indecent.”

“Yer _face_ is indecent,” Clayton grumbles, ears still red. He shoves his hat on in retaliation when he catches Matthew looking. 

“Am I interrupting?” Arabella asks, voice wry, as she peers in from the door. 

“Not at all,” Matthew says smoothly, welcoming her in.

“I’ll be glad to have these threads pulled and done with,” Clayton grouses. 

“I’m sure you will. You been doing your exercises with Aly?” she asks, setting down her bar and pulling out a tiny pair of scissors. 

“Yes. He’s coming by today. Same as he does every day, the bastard.”

“Wonderful,” Arabella replies, in that tiny space between sincere and sarcastic. “Will you be staying, Mister Mason? Or does the sight of a little flesh put your virtue at stake?” 

Matthew keeps his face blank, even as sheepishness creeps his shoulders closer to his ears. “I’m afraid I’ve been requested by Mister Swearengen this morning, so my virtue remains unsullied.” He dons his hat and looks at the both of them. “You behave now.”

“Always,” says one. “Never,” says the other.

Somehow he doesn’t believe either of them. 

* * *

The Gem is never quiet, but this early in the morning it’s more sparse than usual. He’s shown right up to Mister Swearengen’s office, Johnny scrambling to lead the way. The man’s baseline nervous disposition makes it difficult to discern if there was any true reason for such anxiety, Johnny leaves him at the door. Matthew hesitates. 

“Come in, Father.” 

He steps inside the office. Swearengen is unchanged, bright, keen eyes glittering above his perfectly groomed mustache. “Have a seat.”

“Thank you, Mister Swearengen, sir.”

Swearengen stares at him for a long moment. “There’s been tale of men who listen to the whispers of a certain woman in these parts. You know anything about that?”

A sensation like insect legs pickles along his skin. Painted red lips at his ear, murmuring. Matthew shakes it off. “Well, I’m sure Joanie would know about anything going on amongst the womenfolk, sir. Or Miriam.” 

Swearengen’s blue eyes bore into him as if he could see his way through Matthew’s skull right to his very thought. Matthew squirms. 

“This recent…event regarding Mister Sharpe,” Swearengen says. Matthew’s spine stiffens. Swearengen chews the inside of his mouth for a moment. “You put those fuckers in the ground?”

Matthew swallows. “Yes, sir.” 

Swearengen nods, eyes distant. “Good.”

After an awkward moment, Matthew carefully asks. “Is that all, sir?”

“It’s come to my attention,” he taps a single finger against the wood of his desk, “of the fucking possibility that the jobs you do for me, and the small amount of notoriety you’ve gained thereof, could have brought undue attention to Mister Sharpe. I hope you’ll convey the fucking ridiculousness of such an idea to him.”

“Yes, sir. Of course.” 

Swearengen seems to settle at that, leaning back in his chair. “I highly value the work you do. I’d hate to see it discontinued.”

“Yes, Mister Swearengen. If I might say, Mister Sharpe doesn't lay any blame at the feet of anyone other than Patrick Harvey. Though, it might be some time before we’re fully back to business.”

Swearengen nods. “You bring Mister Sharpe to the Gem tonight. It’d do the others good to see him.”

Matthew dips his head. “Yes, Mister Swearengen, sir.”

“Now get the fuck out of my office; I got actual fucking business to attend to.”

Matthew goes. 

* * *

The front door of his church is open, and Matthew can see Aloysius leaning against a pew. His voice carries clearly. “Now don't be not usin' the rail; your fucking pride ain't worth being laid up another week, you numbskull."

Clayton, out of sight, answers, “I’m _using_ the fuckin' rail, Aly. You can take your pride and-"

"Now, now. We in a church, Mister Sharpe, don't be taking that kinda language. What would the Reverend think?”

"You just said-!"

"Use the rail, Sharpe."

"I AM."

Matthew laughs and steps next to Aloysius, both of them watching Clayton practice ascending and descending the stairs. Aloysius smiles. “Well, speak of the devil.”

“You boys gossipin’ bout me? Explains why I was sneezing on the way over here,” Matthew jokes. 

“How could you tell with all the dust in this place?” Aloysius replies. 

“Don’t besmirch my church, Mister Fogg.” It’s not dusty. He just hasn’t had the time to wipe things down in a while. 

“Yeah, yeah, just stay here in case Sharpe decides to fall down the stairs and flatten me.”

Clayton walks confidently, though carefully, his pace steady and sure, down the stairs. The tremble and stiffness in his leg has been slowly erased under Aloysius’s tutelage, day after day. “I _oughtta_ flatten you,” Clayton grouses. He reaches the bottom of the stairs and holds both hands out, “See? Up and down, all by myself.”

Matthew smiles. "Well, now, there you are Mister Sharpe. You and Aloysius managing all right?"

"If I gotta hear about that rail one more damned time, I’m gonna rip it off the wall and beat him with it."

“No, you won’t. You’d have to catch me first,” Aloysius says, mustache impeccably curled. 

Clayton growls and makes a halfhearted swipe at Aloysius, who easily dodges, laughing. 

“Well now, seems like there’s not much left for me to do, Mister Sharp. You keep stretchin’ in the mornin’ and keep working that leg and you should be right as rain.”

Clayton holds his hand out, Aloysius takes it. “Thank you, Aly.”

“You’re welcome, Clayton.” He tips his hat at them and walks toward his horse. “See you fellas later.”

They wave him off, watching his mount kick up dust. “Show off,” Clayton mutters. 

Matthew slides a hand to the small of Clayton’s back, “Let’s go upstairs,” he says, “You deserve a break, rest your leg.”

Clayton smiles, soft and pleased. “It’s feeling pretty good, Matty.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Not quite the way it was before, but nearly.”

Matthew graces him with a quick kiss, overfilled with affection. “That’s wonderful.” 

Clayton ascends the stairs once more, one hand on the rail, and Matthew takes the opportunity to look respectfully at the firm backside in front of him. 

“So what’d that bastard Swearengen want?” Clayton asks, sitting on the bed with a slight groan. He stretches his limbs, toes pointed. 

“Just wanted to make sure we’ll still work for him. That, and offer a very roundabout apology for possibly being an avenue Harvey could have used to find out about you.”

Clayton shakes his head. “It was only a matter of time. I’d decided to stop running. Harvey was going to catch up to me eventually.” 

“Perhaps,” Matthew replies noncommittally. He, for one, would lay some small amount of blame on Swearengen’s feet, but plenty more at his own. He’d failed to protect Clayton, after all. But Clayton is alive and Patrick Harvey and his ilk are dead, and that’s what matters. “Swearengen also requested we eat at the Gem tonight, if you feel up to it.”

Clayton nods. “Yeah, I’d like that. Be nice to go out.” 

“Are you tired?” Matthew asks, “would you like to take a nap beforehand?”

“Naw,” Clayton says, all Texas drawl. “Feelin’ peachy keen, darlin’.”

Matthew nods, heart starting to pound louder in his ears. “Good, good.” He futzes around for a moment, tidying things about the room that don’t need tidying while he works up his courage. Behind him, the sound of boots dropping to the floor and clothes rustling pulls his focus. Matthew glances back to see Clayton stretch out on the bed, his socked feet, his casual comfort, endearing. The nerves in Matthew’s belly soften into something warmer. Still, the distance between them seems to stretch intimidatingly.

The situation is taken out of his hands when Clayton, lying back and looking at the ceiling, picks his head up to ask, “What’re you doing? C’mere.”

He does as he’s bid and moves closer. Clayton’s hand lifts to Matthew’s hip, presses. “What’s got you fussin’?”

Matthew doesn’t answer, instead moving his hand to Clayton’s thigh, same as this morning, but now he gently squeezes the muscle. “How does that feel?”

Clayton swallows. “Feels nice, Matty.” Matthew slips his fingers upward, still on his thigh, but scandalously close to places Matthew has never touched before. 

“What are you doing?” Clayton asks, voice soft.

Matthew pauses. “You said you wanted more.”

Clayton's eyes are animal dark. "Just how much more are you offering, Matthew?" 

"You don't strain yourself tonight, and I'll..." Matthew moves and rests his hand on Clayton's belly, just a bit too low to be proper. Matthew can feel the heat of skin through the thin shirt. "Lend you a helping hand."

Clayton's jaw goes tight. He shakes his head. "No deal."

Hurt blossoms unexpectedly in Matthew's chest at the rejection. He removes his hand, muscles jerking, but Clayton catches his fingers. 

"Not if- not if you're just saying that cause you want me to behave and not overdo the leg. Not if it's something you don't want, too. I ain't playing those sorts of games." Uncertainty flashes along his features. It makes him look abruptly young. "Not like that. Not with you." 

Oh. Matthew kicks himself. 

"I do want you to behave," Matthew says slowly, noting how Clayton swallows, "but I would never use what we have—this connection—as leverage against you. Forgive my poor phrasing." 

"James would do that," Clayton says suddenly. "He'd play games, tug me around just cause he could."

"Then let me be truthful with you, Clay. I very much want to watch you come undone. I want to be the one who _makes_ you come undone." He feels his face flush with heat, but forces himself not to look away. He’s been thinking about this for weeks now.

"Well, in that case," Clayton says, "I can't object."

Still, even with that reassurance, Matthew is careful when he kisses him, attuned to the slightest objection. But Clayton receives him warmly, one hand sliding to rest against the back of his neck, keeping them pressed together. Matthew’s hand falls to Clayton’s leg, slides to his knee, fingers curling under the bend of the joint. Kisses, placed again and again, until Matthew is lost in them; in Clayton, his earthy smell, the prickle of his beard.

Matthew presses one knee to the bed, half atop Clayton, half standing. They rock together, Clayton groaning, soft and honeyed. Arousal throbs heavy in his belly, but Matthew focuses on Clayton, on coaxing more sweet sounds from that elegant throat. He can’t resist, a kiss, a nibble, and _oh_ the sound Clayton makes when he finally bites, heedful of his teeth.

“Again,” Clayton says, hoarse. Matthew acquiesces. Another bite, slightly lower, is lovingly worried into his skin. Clayton’s back arches, pressing close, until Matthew is forced to use a free hand to hold him down. 

“Matthew,” Clayton protests. 

“Lie back,” Matthew urges. As Clayton gets comfortable, Matthew opens his bedside drawer for the little tub of oil the girls at the Bella Union had given him. 

His hand drifts, teasing and light, along the soft skin below Clayton’s belly button, following the trail of darkening hair. He unbuttons the fastenings of Clayton’s trousers, the fabric tented. 

"Do you know what you're doing down there?" Clayton asks, voice slightly strained as Matthew slips a careful hand beneath the waist of his pants, feeling warm, hard flesh. Gently, he pulls Clayon’s erection free. 

He strokes, carefully, watching Clayton’s expression. "I think I might have an idea." Clayton grips his arm, fingers digging into the muscle above his elbow. Matthew grins. Then he kisses Clayton, unreserved and deep. The hot slide of his tongue sneaking into Clayton's mouth distracts him for a moment, but then he remembers his purpose. 

He dips his fingers in the jelly and returns them to Clayton’s cock. Clayton moans as Matthew starts up a steady rhythm, Katy’s instructions in the back of his mind. “Slow- slowly,” Clayton says, the word cracking halfway through. Matthew complies, keeping it unhurried and consistent.

Clayton is long, longer than him, but not as thick. Matthew watches the way the flush blooms down Clayton’s neck, across his chest. It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Clayton’s hips come up, up, off the bed, pushing into Matthew’s slick fist. Matthew tightens his grip, shortens his strokes. 

“_Yes_, Matthew, just-” Clayton starts. 

Someone knocks at the door. Matthew freezes, heart pounding in his ears. 

“-fucking goddamned _shit_,” Clayton finishes. 

Matthew releases his hold on Clayton’s cock and stands upright. His own desire is heavy and persistent between his legs. He reaches down to readjust himself, though it's futile. 

“No,” Clayton objects, trying to keep a hold of him as Matthew pulls away. “No, come back. Don’t-” 

Matthew wipes his hand off and moves the blanket to preserve Clayton’s dignity. “One moment, my dear.”

Clayton covers his face with his hands and groans. Matthew carefully maneuvers himself to block most of the door and opens it just wide enough for his head and shoulder to slip through, keeping his lower half out of sight. 

Miriam stands there, pretty as a picture, on his little entryway. Her hair is done up and she’s wearing her best dress. 

“Miriam!” Matthew says. “What a surprise.”

“I just heard the good news!” she says, beaming. “Arabella released Clayton from care, and the two of you will be eating with us at the Gem.” 

“Ah, yes.” He bobs his head. “That’s right.” 

“How wonderful to know Mister Sharpe is doing so well.” She leans closer. “He is well, isn’t he?”

Matthew clears his throat. “Yes, quite well.”

“Might I be able to check-” she begins, sudden amusement in her face. 

“I’m afraid we’re a bit preoccupied at the moment," Matthew says, as calm as he can be, trying but unable to close the door further, given his width. "Perhaps when we join you later?"

Miriam's gaze flickers under his arm to where Clayton, partially undressed and dazed, splays across the bed. Matthew shifts to pin his arm to his side and block her view, but it’s too late. "Yes...I see that. That sounds fine, darling. Well, it will be so nice having you with us for dinner. Tell Mister Sharpe he's instructed to come, too.”

Matthew smiles awkwardly. "Yes, I'm sure he will." 

“Good man.” She winks and disappears down the stairs. Matthew closes the door. Locks it. Well, their friends would all know soon enough the progress of their relationship, if they didn’t already.

Clayton’s palms remain pressed to his face in something like abject mortification. “I ain’t never gonna be able to look Miriam in the eye again.”

Matthew laughs and returns to Clayton’s side. “I wouldn’t worry.”

“How are you so unruffled about this? You ain’t supposed to be-” He waves his hand loosely at Matthew. 

There’s a distant sort of embarrassment at being caught, true, but it wasn’t overly compromising. “It was only Miriam.” Miriam would undoubtedly tease the two of them, but only a little. He’s just grateful they hadn’t gotten caught by Aloysius, who would _never_ let them hear the end of it. Matthew takes in Clayton’s face, realizing there’s something else tangled in amongst the chagrin. “What is it?”

“I ain’t used other people knowin’, other people seein’. Last time-” His words cut off. 

Oh. Last time could have very well been Patrick discovering Clayton with James. _Panic_, Matthew realizes belatedly. That’s what was in Clayton’s expression. Panic. 

“Sweetheart,” Matthew says, the endearment slipping out as natural as breathing. He cups Clayton’s jaw. “It’s all right. It was only Miriam, who no doubt knew what was goin’ on between us beforehand. She only got confirmation of it.”

Clayton’s mouth thins. “Other places ain’t like Deadwood, and other people ain’t like Miriam.”

“I know, I know.” Matthew runs a soothing hand along Clayton’s hair. “But we _are_ in Deadwood and it _was_ Miriam. You’re safe. I love you.” He cements the statement with a kiss. Then another, at his jaw. “I love you.” Only to be followed by a third, near his ear. “I love you.” And more, until Clayton is gasping, open mouthed, under him. 

“You’re getting too good at this,” Clayton complains between ragged breaths. 

Matthew makes a pleased rumble. “Now, where were we?”

“Somewhere hereabouts.” Clayton pushes the blanket aside and reaches for himself, fingers encircling and tugging at his cock. 

“No,” Matthew says, fingers pressing to Clayton’s wrists. “I want to do it. Please.” Clayton lets his hands fall back to the bed and Matthew replaces them. Clayton remains tense underneath him. "Relax," Matthew urges. “Let me take the edge off for you."

Matthew keeps up his slow, relentless strokes, pinning Clay's hips to the bed with one hand. Then he adds a short twist to the end of his stroke that makes Clayton choke on air. 

"Good?" 

Clayton nods. "Yeah."

Matthew smiles, pleased. He works at this the same way he works at anything; diligently. Pressing and touching and sliding. 

"Come on, Matthew,” Clayton whines, trying to arch into Matthew's touch. 

"Patience is a virtue, Mister Sharpe," he teases, voice and hands both.

"I thought you were supposed to be taking the edge off.” 

"I will," Matthew promises. "I just want to find it first." He tugs at Clayton's trousers. "May I?" 

"Yes, yes, anything, Jesus." 

Matthew draws the fabric down and takes Clayton's socks with them. He remains fully dressed, thoroughly distracting Clayton every time he so much as fumbles at his buttons.

He runs his fingertips along the delicate bones of Clayton's ankle, takes in the almost elegant curves of his legs, the muscles of his thighs, which intermittently twitch when Matthew touches him. God, he's beautiful, laid out before him like a Greek hero of old. 

The scar sits in his skin, pink-purple. A remarkably straight line that snakes up the front of Clayton's thigh toward his hip, stopping a few inches short of where leg meets body.

Matthew swipes his thumb over the mark, the rough yet smooth texture. Clayton shivers, goosebumps breaking out across his flesh. Matthew dips down and kisses it, the brief press of the tip of his tongue running along its edge. 

Clayton's fingers drift into his hair, but he doesn't push, palm lying heavy against his head. Matthew nuzzles the crease of Clayton's hip. Inhales. Musky arousal and sweat and the smell of rich, loamy soil. Scent wasn't a thing for him, before, but with _Clayton_. Matthew thinks he could track him by this alone. 

Hunger coils in his gut. He can't resist another nip at thin skin stretched over bone. He licks the salt from Clayton's skin and slips lower, moving to the root of Clayton's cock. He doesn't take it fully into his mouth, not quite yet confident in his ability, but he does use his lips alongside his fingers. Kissing, licking. 

Clayton whimpers, feet digging for purchase, attempting to press closer, to get more friction. Matthew presses his own hips tight against the edge of the bed. Ruts. Oh, it's so good. With Clayton it's so good. The thought of getting himself off like this, on Clayton's begging, is nearly enough for him to finish—but this isn't about him. This is about Clayton. 

Matthew explores, kissing nearly every inch of him, always touching, always returning to where Clayton wants him most, but never staying long enough to count.

"Have mercy, Father." Clayton is trembling, eyes dazed with desire. "Have-" 

Matthew shifts back, thumbs at the head of Clayton’s cock gently. A bead of release forms like a pearl, dripping, before getting lost in Matthew’s fingers. “That's it, sweetheart, that's it. Come on."

Clayton comes apart under his touch with a wrenched noise, almost pained, spilling onto his belly. Matthew strokes him through release until he moans Matthew’s name, plaintive. Matthew presses a quick kiss to the corner of Clayton’s mouth, his cheek. Clayton doesn't react, seemingly poleaxed from his climax. 

“Shall I draw you a bath?” Matthew muses, mostly to himself. “Clean you up?”

Clayton’s eyes slowly refocus on Matthew’s face. He swallows once, twice, throat clicking. “Only,” he says, voice raw, “if you join me.”

It will be a tight fit with both of them in it, but perhaps that’s what Clayton intends. Matthew smiles. “I’d love to.”

* * *

Hours later, dry and scrubbed clean—after a filthy interlude wherein Clayton demonstrates his own skills resulting in more bathwater splashed on the floor than in the tub—they dress in their best finery. For men like them, that isn’t saying much. Matthew selects his cleanest, newest clothes, but his shoes are shiny, and his shirt is pressed neat. His suspenders stretch over his shoulders in a way that makes Clayton’s eyes linger. Apparently distracted, he’s not yet finished dressing when Matthew finishes. Matthew steps in to help. 

Clayton leans into Matthew’s body heat as he does up the other man’s buttons, pretty mother-of-pearl pieces he slips into the eyelets one at a time. Clayton presses his face against Matthew’s chest, seeming content just to soak in the warmth like a cat in the sunshine. With his normal disposition surly and tight lipped, it’s a delight to see him so loose limbed and indolent. Sex seems to unwind Clayton. Matthew makes a mental note to keep Clayton relaxed as much as possible in the future. 

“Like it when you take care of me,” Clayton murmurs. “Ain’t had nobody do it in a long time.”

“It’s absolutely my pleasure.” He smoothes his hands down Clayton’s sleeves. “I like taking care of you.”

“Still ain’t one of your sheep, Father.” Clayton’s protest is muffled. 

Matthew slides fingers into Clayton’s still wet hair. “I recall you praising God a few times-” He laughs when Clayton nips him. “All right, all right.” He cradles the back of Clayton’s skull. “A wolf in sheep’s clothing, perhaps.”

“You’re the wolf, Matty.” Clayton tilts his head, revealing the lurid marks on his throat even the highest collar couldn’t cover. “Bit possessive, are you?”

Matthew drifts his hand down to them, Clayton’s pulse pressing against his fingers. “Yes,” Matthew says, “I am.” He pushes his thumb into the bruise just to watch Clayton’s eyelashes flutter as he groans. A low pleasure warms his belly.

“Can’t say I particularly mind,” Clayton, the lines of his body slack.

“Good,” Matthew rumbles, pressing a gentle kiss to the same place his thumb had been, making Clayton sway closer.

Someone’s stomach growls. They part, laughing. “Let’s get something to eat.” Matthew says. 

“Wait, your coat.” Clayton steps away to pluck it from the coatrack by the door. 

Matthew slides it on, the heavy duster lying pleasantly on his shoulders. “How do I look?” he asks.

Clayton fixes his collar, fingers sliding along the line of his coat. For a moment, Clayton eyes him like he wants to eat _him_ before the impulse passes. He clears his throat. “You look good, Matty.” He gestures. “Lead the way.”

They arm themselves—one star, two colts, all freshly oiled and wiped down—and walk down to the Gem together. Nothing so trite as hand in hand, but certainly step in step. Every now and then, they brush. Elbows, wrists, fingers. The slight touches send little frissions of awareness down Matthew’s spine. 

They step inside, the music and din quieting before Johnny cries out their names and rushes over. He leads them to where their friends wait at their habitual table, already lively with drink. Johnny sets a bottle on the table along with two more glasses, filling the air with bumbling chatter. He and Clayton are greeted with exuberance. Clayton takes the attention in surprising stride, enduring his friend’s ribbing with good nature. 

Matthew removes his jacket off and stretches back in his chair. He can feel the cornflower blue stare of Clayton, a gaze he can now recognize as _desiring_, land on him. Matthew smiles back, small and secret. 

“You sure you feelin’ all right, Clayton?” Miriam asks, eyes shining with mischief. 

“Hmm?” Clayton hums, lazily and slowly turns his attention back to their companions. 

"Seems like you fellas got yourselves all sorted out." Aloysius isn't subtle, the curled edges of his mustache lending extra smugness to his grin. 

"We reached a conclusion of mutual satisfaction," Clayton drawls, remarkably unconcerned. 

Matthew's face flushes. _He’d_ been hesitant to use his mouth out of inexperience, but Clayton had had no such compunction. 

Aloysius raises his glass. “To you two getting your shit together.” 

“Oh, fuck off,” Clayton says without heat.

Aloysius’s smile softens into something real. “Well, all right, then.” The moment stretches like molasses, the bustle of the saloon seems to fall to a hush around them. Aloysius’s voice roughens with emotion as he amends his toast. “To family.” 

“To never leaving anyone behind.” Arabella lifts her mug to clink softly against Aloysius’s shot glass.

“To life!” Miriam raises her drink exuberantly, face flushed with happiness. 

“To love.” Matthew looks over at Clayton, chest pressed tight with emotion. 

Clayton looks at all of them in turn and meets their glasses with his. “To the Deadwood Five.”


End file.
